


We Hail From Golden Chains

by Silver_setting_sun



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Culture, Alien Mythology/Religion, Arranged Marriage, Body Horror, Civil War, Class Issues, Corruption, Crime Scenes, Culture Shock, Discrimination, Empurata, Falling In Love, Family Dinners, Forced Marriage, Functionalism (Transformers), Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Investigations, Law, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other, Poetry, Politics, Pre-War, Psychological Trauma, Revolution, Self-Esteem Issues, Slut Shaming, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Torture, Trafficking, Violence, shadowplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 65,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23100265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_setting_sun/pseuds/Silver_setting_sun
Summary: Point One Percenters: hand crafted gifts from Primus that hold immense power and high positions in Functionist society. A Point One Percenter in a Cold Constructed body is unthinkable, blasphemous and now, an unfortunate reality in the form of a Tarnian miner.The only solution to avoid public outrage is to restore the mech’s class and honor. But what to do when that mech is a danger to the state- one that wants to overturn the system? The answer, tie him to that system with iron bindings. But bindings are only as strong as the jailer who uses them. Something all of Cybertron is about to learn.
Relationships: Dominus Ambus/Rewind, Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet, Megatron & Optimus Prime, Megatron & Orion Pax, Megatron/Minimus Ambus, Megatron/Optimus Prime, Megatron/Orion Pax, Megatron/Ultra Magnus, One-sided Pharma/Ratchet (Transformers)
Comments: 301
Kudos: 252





	1. Part 1 Chapter 1

The blinking blue light drew Ratchet from his tired haze. It was late and he was cleaning up the Dead End clinic in slow mechanical movements. Looking up, he reset his optics, clearing the foggy feeling from his processor.

Ratchet dropped the cleaning rag he was using on the medical berth and made his way to the data pad glowing with a new notification. Ratchet picked it up and squinted at the screen. It was a medical file, but he didn’t recognize the sender. 

“Who the frag is Flatline,” Ratchet muttered.

He swept his fingers across the screen, opening the file. He was met with a picture, a spark scan to be exact. It was blurry and poorly taken- a hack job, but definitely a spark scan. 

At the bottom of the photo was basic information about the owner’s frame: Manual class, Cold Constructed, Spark ignited on Luna 1, Mining vehicle alt. Ratchet did a cursory once over of the scan, then frowned. _That couldn’t be right_. 

The scan wasn’t in color, so Ratchet couldn’t tell that way, but this spark wasn’t normal. It gave off much more energy for anything normal. He could see the charge jumping, frozen mid arc by the picture. Ratchet moved to the second page of the file. It was a report of the spark readings. Just like he thought, its output was much too high to be normal.

Ratchet got a closer look and nearly gaped. The spark was giving off almost a thousand times the energy a normal spark was capable of. There was no mistaking it; this was a Point One Percenter. But that didn’t make any sense. Ratchet went back to the spark scan for a second look at the patient information. 

_No, I’m not crazy_ , Ratchet thought. _It does say cold constructed and manual class for that matter._

This was beyond strange. Point One Percenters sat at the top of society, normally the highest in the military and intellectual classes. They were unbelievably strong, intelligent, favorites of the functionists. There was no way they would put one of their Primus Chosen in an “inferior vessel” and leave him in the mines. 

Ratchet swiped to the third page of the file. Here was the complete patient file and injury report. Ratchet looked at the picture of the patient and was hit by a wave of familiarity. It was that miner who’d been beaten in his cell. Orion had begged him to come give him an exam. The entire event was replaying vividly in his processor. 

* * *

Ratchet ran a servo down his face. He’d run to catch the transport after Orion had startled him awake with a Comm call. The mech was desperate for Ratchet to come in. Someone about “I’m not an expert, but I don’t think he’s getting proper care.”

He sighed. Orion had him wrapped around his finger and Ratchet was sure his friend knew it. The transport arrived at his stop. Ratchet grabbed his tool bag and exited the vehicle. He made his way to the Rodion Police Station, cursing how easy it was for Orion to get him to make the long trip. 

Orion met him in the lobby and gestured for Ratchet to follow.

“Tell me again, what happened?” 

“One of our officers was found beating him viciously in his cell.” Orion said, his voice tight

Ratchet grimaced. “Why?” he asked, the question coming out strangled.

Orion shrugged. “All I know is someone high up orchestrated the attack. We’ve called in medical personnel for the victim. The medic is government issued, but his actions have been...concerning.” 

They arrived in front of a broom closet and Orion stood aside expectantly. 

Ratchet looked at his friend in confusion. "I thought you were taking me to see this patient and medic?"

"Yes," Orion began slowly. "I offered the medic a couple places to conduct his exam, but he said here would do."

"The exam is taking place in a broom closet?"

Orion winced. “I hope now you see why I was worried enough to call you.”

Ratchet grunted his understanding, threw all notions of privacy to the wind, and entered the closet. Orion waited outside respectfully.

The first thought that hit Ratchet was the closet was a lot bigger than expected. The second was a wordless feeling of shock and fury. Lying on the hard unsterilized floor was the miner Orion had described. His frame was scuffed and dented in obvious signs of abuse. He lay unmoving with his chest plates opened and spark bared for the medic above him

The medic was about ratchet's size with black plating and red highlights. He held a clunky outdated scanner and was holding it above the miner's spark. 

The medic's helmet shot up at hearing the door open. He shakily drew the scanner away from the miner, optics wide. 

"Uh, hello," he said nervously. "My name's F-" 

"I don't give a frag what your name is," Ratchet snapped. "The only thing that matters to me is you are currently engaging in at least three counts of medical malpractice."

The medic jerked like he'd been shot. 

"Negligence. That scanner is ancient and with all the radiation in that thing you're going to disable his t-cog." Ratchet ticked off the problems on his fingers as he went. "Failure to order proper testing. That's not even a spark scanner. You're using standard issue equipment to do a specialized exam. How are going to tell if anything's actually wrong? And judging by the poor condition and hygiene of this room, you're running a violation of the standard of care."

The miner was sitting up now and had closed his chest plates. He looked slightly disturbed and shifted his body to the left, putting some distance between him and the medic. 

"Sir," The medic's voice wavered slightly. "I was sent here last minute and there weren't many options-"

"You could get your medical license removed for this, so I suggest you leave and let me take over."

The medic nodded shakily. He gathered his stuff and slinked towards the door. "I'll just send you the scan, ah...sir?"

"Ratchet of Vaporex," he answered gruffly. “Look me up in the medical system and you'll find the frequency."

The sound of the door closing signaled the medic's exit. Ratchet heaved a sigh of frustration, then approached the miner.

"I'll be taking over your treatment," Ratchet informed him. "How about we go somewhere a little more appropriate for medical care?"

The miner got to his feet and Ratchet had Orion lead them to an office. It wasn't the best, but it was cleaner than the closet and had plenty of places to sit down.

The miner fell heavily into a chair, letting out a breath of exertion. 

_Most likely crushed vents_ Ratchet noted.

Ratchet placed his bag on the table. "I don't see any serious signs of injury to the chest plates, so no need to open your chassis again."

The miner nodded his consent and Ratchet got to work. He patched the miner up steadily: welding, popping out dents and scraping chipped paint away from injuries.

Through the entire process the miner remained silent, his optics dimmed in thought. But despite the calm, Ratchet got the distinct feeling that this mech was angry.

He could see it in the clench of denta, the rigidness of his posture, the occasional flare of red optics.

And with the terrible unjust violence this mech had endured, Ratchet couldn't say he blamed him.

The miner winced when Ratchet popped his shoulder joint back into place. Ratchet picked up a welder and started work on the tears on the miner's thigh.

"What's your name?" he asked in an attempt to distract his patient from the pain. 

"Megatron," the mech said sullenly.

"If you don't mind me asking, do you have any chronic medical conditions I should know about? Nanite deficiency or relay corruption for example."

"No," Megatron said, and they fell into comfortable silence. 

After an hour, Ratchet put away his tools, nodding in satisfaction.

"Can you still feel any pain?"

Megatron frowned. "Does it matter?"

The question was so unexpected that for a second Ratchet doubted he'd heard the other mech correctly.

A beat of silence passed. Ratchet grabbed his tool bag and looked up at the larger mech. "My job is to make sure you feel good, not that you simply look good. I don't do cover-ups or hack jobs." 

Megatron's hard features softened. "You're a good person." He said it with disbelief in his tired voice. 

Ratchet was again reminded of how hellish a day this must have been for Megatron. 

He wanted to say it was going to be ok, that he was sorry no one cared and that there would be justice for what was done.

Instead he offered a hand and said, "Let me give you my Comm frequency. If you ever need anything, give me a call."

They shook on it. 

Ratchet left Megatron in the lobby with Orion. He heard Orion say something about waiting for the release papers to process then proceed to try and make small talk.

That in itself was strange. Orion Pax didn't do small talk. He got straight to the point even in the friendliest of conversations. But with Megatron, he was awkwardly trying to ask about Tarn's weather while standing much closer than strictly necessary. 

Ratchet shook his head in exasperation and started the trip back to his clinic. 

* * *

Megatron of Tarn. Ratchet remembered the miner well. It was unbelievable to think that mech was a Point One Percenter.

Megatron was a Point One Percenter in a cold constructed body. Ratchet hadn't even thought it possible until now. 

The theory was that special sparks would overcharge a premade body and fry the internals, destroying the frame. Having those sparks develop into its chosen frame as a forged was the only option.

But according to these results it was possible, more than possible, it had happened. Ratchet groaned. What was he supposed to do? Who was he supposed to tell?

He put down the datapad and checked his chronometer. He'd have to leave now if he wanted to arrive at dinner on time. Pharma would get huffy otherwise, and Ratchet wasn't sure he could deal with that tonight. 

He'd figure out what to do afterwards.

The restaurant was one Pharma had chosen and was just as fancy and high class as Ratchet expected. 

The establishment was at the top of a shimmering tower. The inside was circular with walls of window panels all the way around. It was the type of place a flight frame would dream of, but Ratchet just found it boring.

The place was crowded, becoming a blur of noise and color. Ratchet stood there, unsure what to do.

The host shot him a curious glance. Ratchet was about to ask him for help when he caught sight of a familiar pair of wings. 

He waded through the sea of tables and bodies until he arrived at the window booth where Pharma was sitting. 

"Ratchet," Pharma greeted. 

Ratchet waved a hand in a tired hello, sat across from the other mech and grabbed a menu.

Ratchet began to read through. It was what he expected: Unnecessary fancy and painfully expensive. 

A waiter came by and filled both their glasses with mid-grade. Everyone claimed it to be a palette cleaner between fancier types of energon. The convention was to take small sips before a new fuel but Ratchet didn't see the point. 

"You wouldn't believe my day," Pharma said, clearly very ready to talk.

Ratchet peeked over the top of the menu, making sure Pharma saw his unimpressed expression. "Already making assumptions, Pharma?"

Pharma rolled his optics playfully. "Please, they're not assumptions when you know you’re right. Now let me tell you about all the idiots I've had to deal with."

Ratchet obliged, putting down the menu and giving Pharma his full attention as the mech started to speak. Or at least he tried. 

Pharma was an excellent conversationalist, possessing both intelligence and charm. But whenever he droned on about the drama of the job, Ratchet just couldn't find it in himself to be interested. He really didn't care what Kaltor said Sideguard said to Wingbolt in the operating room. 

"Torx absolutely refused to give him a referral. And everyone knows it's because of his dwindling number of patients."

The waiter's arrival cut off Pharma's story to Ratchet's relief. The waiter set down two glasses of energon with swirls of some blue substance stirred in. 

"I don't remember ordering anything," Ratchet said, picking up the glass and tilting it side to side. He watched the energon swish, noting the strangely thick consistency.

Pharma picked up his own glass. "You weren't here yet, so I ordered for both of us."

He chuckled at Ratchet's skeptical expression. "Relax, Ratchet." He fluttered his wings suggestively. "I know your tastes." 

Ratchet resisted the urge to groan. Pharma had been on this road for a while now. And yeah, Pharma was attractive, but Ratchet felt uneasy over the idea of ‘facing or dating a former student. 

Instead of finding a response for the flirtations, Ratchet opted to divert the topic.

"Pharma, you were thinking about training to be a blacksmith for a little while right?" 

Pharma looked caught off guard, but quickly recovered with a wide smile.

"Yes, I was, but I found surgery to be more of my calling."

"Blacksmiths have to be familiar with the classification system. That something you studied?"

Pharma's grin fell slightly. "What are you trying to ask me, Ratchet?"

Ratchet took a long drink of his energon. It was surprisingly good and Ratchet was somewhat annoyed to realize that Pharma did know his tastes. 

"I wanted to know what happens if a mech is misclassified. If they're put into a class lower than they're supposed to be and someone finds out."

Pharma's grin was back and ever so condescending. "That never happens, Ratchet. There are-"

"But suppose it did. What would happen and who’s responsible?”

Pharma thought for a moment. "Well, the mech would be placed into the proper class and compensated. As for who is responsible, that depends on the severity." Pharma swirled his drink. "Usually, the manager of the hotspot or construction facility would be accountable. But if the discrepancy is big enough, I suppose the Functionist council might be held accountable. Those are their facilities after all." 

Ratchet clutched his glass harder. 

The rest of the night was a blur to Ratchet. All he could think of was that file sitting innocently in the clinic. Before he knew it, they were exiting the restaurant. Ratchet was so focused on that file, he didn’t even protest when Pharma kissed him goodbye on the cheek.

Ratchet hurried back to the Dead End clinic, arriving late into the night. He picked up the datapad and started writing a message: a report on what the recipient was seeing. He then attached the medical file and sent it to Orion. 

The first line read _Your Senator friend will want to see this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed, please, leave a comment down below! Thanks for reading!


	2. Part 1 Chapter 2

Shockwave sat in his senatorial chair, optics scanning the room. He sat with perfect posture: ramrod straight and shoulders back. It was a formality, but also a sort of posturing. It was a way to show you were confident, knowledgeable and powerful. It was exactly what Shockwave needed to show today.

After Orion sent the medical file and report, Shockwave had nearly leapt with joy. He’d wanted to crush Orion in a hug for the information. 

Initially, he wasn't sure what to do, but after some research into the mech in question, Shockwave realized this was his chance: An opportunity to advance his goals through this Cybertronian’s status.

Two mechs entered, distracting Shockwave from his thoughts. Senator Proteus and Emirate Xeon walked in, side by side. Xeon appeared to be trying to explain something and Proteus nodded along in agreement.

Shockwave’s optical ridges rose in surprise. He hadn't thought Proteus would give the time of day to an Emirate, and especially not to Xeon. The mech was known for his unsubtle corruption and rumored to have more than a few risqué hobbies. Being seen with Xeon simply wasn't good for reputation.

Senate meetings were open to any politician, but Emirates were much lower than senators on the political totem pole and typically didn't attend. Xeon however, came regularly. Shockwave suspected he was trying to suck up to and impress the higher-ups in order to get a better position. Shockwave squinted at Xeon, and sure enough, he was sporting a beautiful new coat of purple paint that gleamed with polish. 

A few moments later, Nominus Prime and his advisers entered the room, signaling the start of the meeting. 

Dai Atlas, the Senate speaker stood and walked down to the Senate floor. He took his place behind the podium and began to speak. 

"Greetings, esteemed Senators, Justices and our honorable Prime."

Dai Atlas's words boomed through the chamber, echoing off the walls. 

"This meeting has been called to discuss possible solutions for the ongoing energon crisis," he said solemnly. "If I am correct, Senator Decimus has a presentation and proposal about this-" Dai Atlas looked up to Decimus for confirmation and Decimus inclined his helm.

"Senator Shockwave also has a proposal, but about a different topic." 

Shockwave nodded. Dai Atlas walked back to his seat and Decimus took his place at the podium. 

"Esteemed Senators, Justices, and honorable Prime,"

Shockwave almost sighed. That opening got old quickly when working in the Senate. 

"The energon crisis has been ongoing for nearly ten years now, and the machine that is our fine society has begun to feel these pains of an empty tank." Decimus paused, letting his opener sink into the crowd. 

"Over the last three months I’ve led the process of automating mines in order to save energon. This effort has saved thirty percent more energon from these mines that would have been used to fuel workers." 

Decimus smiled in pride. "I want authorization to do the same to off world mining outposts. My people calculate this will save six years worth of energon, giving us more time to find a permanent solution."

The chamber fell into silence, waiting for Dai Atlas to call a vote. Instead, Nominus stood, his large frame drawing everyone's attention.

"Authorized," he said simply, then sat down. 

Decimus placed a hand on his chest and bowed deeply. "Thank you my Prime," he said, then walked away to take his seat.

Shockwave wasn't sure what Nominus did was entirely legal, but it didn't matter. It was his turn to speak. Shockwave got to his pedes, walked down to the Senate floor and took his place at the podium. 

"Esteemed Senators, Justices, and honorable Prime," Shockwave announced, and immediately felt a sort of self-resentment. "Recently I received information from a citizen that appalled me, and frankly, is an embarrassment to our righteous rule if we do nothing."

Murmurs traveled through the room and Shockwave knew he'd captured their attention.

"Someone has made a mistake in classifying a mech. And I'm not talking about a Construction class put into the Manual class or something equally as trivial. There is a Point One Percenter that was put into a Cold Constructed body and then placed in the Manual class."

The murmurs grew louder. Mechs were standing and raising their voices in objection to Shockwave's statement.

"It is a fact and I have the evidence to prove it," Shockwave yelled over the crowd. The voices only seemed to grow louder.

"Silence!" Nominus bellowed suddenly.

The chamber fell quiet instantly and mechs dropped back into their seats.

Shockwave gathered himself, straightening his back struts and resetting his vocalizer. "This mech has been denied his Primus granted position," he began slowly. "And I propose we raise his status, elevating him to the Intellectual class."

"You want us to make a danger to our society, our equal?"

Shockwave looked over to see Proteus standing. _Of course. It would be Proteus._

"I read the file you sent ahead of time," Proteus snarled. "The mech is Megatron of Tarn, a known enemy of Functionism that has written multiple inflammatory essays about the class system. He is the writer that caused the recent protesters to come into existence. He seeks to destroy our perfect Primus shaped society and you want to reward that behavior? You can't expect us to agree without some way to control him."

Whispers of agreement started to spread and Shockwave had to fight the urge to grit his denta. 

_You're ok_ he told himself. _You planned for this._

"You say you value how Primus has molded our society, Proteus." Shockwave stared directly at the Senator. "Primus has hand crafted that mech's spark for greatness. Denying that is to deny Primus's will. Do you regularly engage in sacrilege, esteemed Senator?"

Proteus's face twisted in rage, but he remained silent, choosing instead to sit down and maintain his pride. 

Shockwave addressed the crowd with growing confidence. "I understand that you are all wary of the damage this mech has caused, but I remind you, this file was sent to me by a civilian. If we do nothing, someone could release the file to the public and there would be outrage. How can we enforce Functionism if we don't adhere to it ourselves and rectify this mistake? If we don’t, this will be fuel for mistrust and rebellion. If it makes you more at ease then I propose we raise this mech through a sparkbonding. This way his status will be tied to someone with our values and interests and we can better keep an optic on him."

This time Senator Sherma was the one to rise. Shockwave felt a wave of relief. Sherma was a reasonable mech that Shockwave knew would be on his side. 

"I agree," Sherma declared. "But who would be the one to bond to this mech?"

Alpha Trion answered, to Shockwave's astonishment. Alpha Trion was the oldest in the room, and rarely spoke during meetings. Despite the little impact he made in session, everyone knew of the mech's many connections, resources and supporters. Alpha Trion had influence and when he spoke, people paid attention. 

"Before this regime, it was customary for Point One Percenters to be bonded to the Prime in his harem.” Alpha Trion pointed to Nominus. “The Point One Percenters are gifts from Primus, made to be guides and heroes for us-- his children. The bonds were meant to symbolize the mutual love and trust between Primus and the Prime that is the groundwork for our communities."

Nominus's face scrunched up with discomfort. 

Shockwave wasn't old enough to remember Nova Prime's regime, but he knew enough to understand Nominus had broken a couple traditions in regards to bonding. 

He hadn't chosen a High Lord Protector or a political bond mate. He hadn’t even indulged in high class escorts. The Prime just didn't appear to have any interest in relationships or interface.

Predictably, Pyritus, Nominus's favorite advisor answered. "The Prime is too busy to indulge in any of these outdated traditions," he claimed in that irritatingly nasally voice. "What we need is a Noble. They keep their conjunxes on a tight leash, you know." 

Unfortunately, Shockwave did know. That was one of the more disturbing aspects of Noble culture. Political sparkbondings were the norm, and those that bonded into another house were treated appallingly by their new family. Property rights were retracted, they were addressed as inferior and oftentimes, they weren't allowed to leave their home without permission from their conjunx. 

If Megatron were to be bonded to a normal Noble, Shockwave's plans would be ruined. There would be one less avenue for progress. Quickly, he wracked his processor for options. There was only one that could save the situation.

"What about Minimus of the Ambus house?" Shockwave proposed. 

"The Ultra Magnus of Cybertron?" Justice Codicil asked, incredulous. 

Shockwave clutched the podium, giving silent thanks that Chief Justice Tyrest wasn't there. That would make things incredibly more difficult. 

"Minimus Ambus is exactly what we're looking for," Shockwave explained. "As a Noble, he would raise Megatron's status to the Intellectual class and keep him on tight reins. Additionally, as the Ultra Magnus he oversees all enforcer departments and works directly under Chief Justice Tyrest. A strong lawman like this would keep Megatron's rebellious behavior in check."

If any of them knew Minimus personally, Shockwave's point would have been laughable. _That mech has a bleeding spark_ Shockwave thought fondly. _He'd never think of treating his conjunx like a possession._

Before anyone could protest, Nominus spoke up, eager to eliminate the possibility of having to bond himself. 

"This is agreeable. If all are in favor, I will sign the necessary documents." 

Dai Atlas called a vote. It was unanimous. 

Shockwave gave a deep bow and left the podium, spark light with hope. He returned to his seat and Dai Atlas retook the podium and started to talk.

Sherma leaned over to whisper in Shockwave's audial. "Take a look at Proteus," he said with barely contained glee.

Shockwave snuck a glance at the Senator. Proteus looked to be deep in thought, but the angry scowl on his face was telling. Shockwave had to suppress a snort of laughter. 

After a few parting words from Dai Atlas, the end of the meeting was called, and everyone began to leave the chamber. 

Shockwave made his way over to Decimus before the mech could join the crowd. “Hello, Senator Decimus,” Shockwave greeted.

“Senator Shockwave,” Decimus said in kind. “What can I do for you?” 

“I need a favor.”

Decimus gave him a sly look. “I take it has something to do with that Point One Percenter you went on about? He’s a miner, correct?”

Shockwave nodded.

“And let me guess, he’s a miner at one of the outposts I plan to automate?”

Shockwave nodded again. "Mining Outpost C-12."

Decimus chuckled. “Yes, I’ll pick him up on the trip, but I’ll need something in return.”

“Full political support for your next proposal,” Shockwave offered.

“Perfect,” Decimus purred. “You’ll have your miner here for his ceremony by the end of this week.”

* * *

Minimus sat in his office, typing up a report to send to Tyrest. He shifted awkwardly in his chair, trying to relieve the stiffness in his leg joints. The Magnus Armor always caused discomfort when worn for long periods of time, but Minimus was used to it.

He read the report one final time before sending it. He stood, and was about to leave when a message notification popped up. It was from Senator Shockwave. 

Gingerly, Minimus sat back into the chair and opened the message. It was long- thirty pages at least, but Minimus was no stranger to these kinds of documents. He began to read through, but found himself more and more confused as he progressed.

It seemed to be one of those contracts Nobles signed for an arranged bonding. Minimus checked the time then stretched. It was getting late. Slightly annoyed at his own behavior, Minimus skipped to the last page of the document. He knew this was usually where the more personal information was. 

Certificate of Conjunx Endura Status 

This certifies that 

Minimus Ambus of Ambustus Minor and Megatron of Tarn

are Sparkbonded in the eyes of the legitimate and righteous Cybertronian Senate

This union is ordered and legitimized by the Senate and Prime

X_____Nominus Prime__________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ball gets rolling! Hope you enjoyed and if you did, please, leave a comment down below!


	3. Part 1 Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter there are a few quotes from Megatron Origin #1(If you haven't read it you should, it's so good!) Just wanna be clear, I am in no way trying to steal from the comics! Thanks and enjoy!

Megatron brought his pickaxe down on an especially stubborn piece of rock. It splintered under the force, revealing the glitter of unrefined energon. 

Megatron huffed, vents blowing out hot air to cool his systems. He gripped the pickaxe handle harder and it creaked from the pressure. 

He'd been down here for months now. That left time to think. Think about the violence he'd endured in Rodion. Think about how close he'd been to mental mutilation on Messatine. Think about those unlucky masses that hadn't made it through their personal mutilations. Think about who called the shots. Think about _the system._

And as those thoughts ran ceaseless, Megatron found himself stewing in disgust and anger.

The essays he'd written since Messatine were always on the surface of his thoughts. New words and ideas bubbled up, adding to them, molding them. What Megatron wouldn't have given for a simple datapad to funnel those thoughts into sentences. He couldn’t use the ones he’d saved from Messatine. He couldn’t bear to look at them. They only reminded him of his selfishness- his decision to save them instead of searching for Terminus.

_They say we are all cogs in a machine, made for one purpose. They say what you turn into determines your worth, and yet, the ones highest in our society are not judged by the same standards. Their shining class is intellectual, something that is alt mode exempt. If their greatness is due to their ability to think, to be intellectuals, why have we no voice to prove that we too, can think. We cannot speak because they know our thoughts. They know we think the system is broken._

An announcement from the mine speakers pulled Megatron up from his thoughts. 

**All workers are to come to the C-12 assembly. Senator Decimus has initiated this meeting. Take leave of your current tasks and attend immediately.**

Megatron balanced the pickaxe over his shoulder and began the trip out of the mines. He reached the assembly floor quickly where a crowd was already beginning to form. 

At the front of the crowd, on top of a raised platform stood a brightly polished mech with guards flanking him. His blue and red plating boasted carefully detailed accents of yellow and he carried himself with the self-importance of the high class. Megatron recognized the Senator from various holovids he’d seen.

Decimus began his speech. He talked about the struggles of the hub and some other nonsense that Megatron was sure wasn’t relevant to why the Senator was visiting. 

“You can rest easy. The Senate thanks each and every one of you for your contribution. Your hard work here is at an end. That’s right, for all of you, this will be your last cycle working on Orbital mine C-12.”

All at once the crowd began to speak, everyone trying to make sense of the situation. Objections popped up in the sea of voices, all trying to get answers.

Decimus began to make reassurances over the outcry. He promised they would get new homes and working assignments, but Megatron could already see the lies in his words. 

He wasn’t the only one. Another nearby miner also saw the deception. “The mine’s not dry. Y’all know that right?”

Decimus assured the miner that they did indeed know that.

“Automation, then!” the miner accused. “Y’all are going to replace us then leave us without a job! Find a new assignment? You think we’re idiots or somethin’? You Senate pomps are going to do the same to other mines. Then where will we work?”

A slow sear of anger made its way through the crowd and Decimus was beginning to look unnerved.

“And now you want to kick us out and shake our paws and have us say thank you? You Senate officials don’t care ‘bout people like us. You take and you take-” 

One of Decimus’s guards brought a voltaic baton down on the miner’s neck cabling. The resulting blue electric flash and miner’s shout of pain attracted the entire assembly’s attention. 

The miner fell to the ground, clutching his helm protectively. A couple workers tried to approach, but more guards held them back.

The guard with the baton stared down the miner, then raised his weapon.

“Help!” The miner cried, but it was pointless. The guard began hitting him repeatedly with the weapon. Sickening cracks sounded from every heavy blow. 

The crowd watched in horror as he was beaten to pieces. The cries of agony faded into silence and were replaced with the guard’s grunts of effort. Energon spilled across the ground and soon, a broken, beaten corpse lay unmoving at the guard’s pedes.

The guard stepped back from his work and faced the crowd, unfazed. “Get back,” he told them. 

Instead of the fearful response that the murder had meant to incite, the outrage of the crowd flared into white hot fury. This was the beginning of something violent and everyone there knew it.

“Brothers,” Decimus called, trying to save the situation. “Please, just stay calm.”

Megatron looked up the mech who had just ordered the death of another Cybertronian for speaking out against the falsehoods. He looked up at this shining mech who thought of them as vermin to be controlled and he felt a horrible seething hate. 

In that moment of rage, Megatron flung his pickaxe at the Senator.

“The Senate is making sure you get exactly what you deserv-”

The pickaxe struck Decimus in the shoulder with a spray of sparks and energon. The Senator screamed and collapsed, grasping at the injury. 

The crowd cheered at the Senator’s wound and began jostling and shoving, trying to get closer to the stage. The guards pushed back with weapons and fists.

The riot began. 

The guard that had killed the miner started to give an order to attack. Before he could, Megatron crashed into him, pinning the bulky mech to the ground. The guard snarled and grabbed a blaster from his holster, sticking it in Megatron’s face. 

In a moment of both quick thinking and desperation, Megatron slapped the blaster out of the guard’s hands. In response, the guard reached up and grasped Megatron’s helm, wrapping large heavy digits around its entirety.

The pressure started as a dull painful sensation, but gradually began increasing. Megatron could feel his plating begin to give way, denting, then buckling under the force. The pain became more intense and Megatron realized with terror that this mech would crush his helm without a second thought. A horrifically gruesome way to die.

“No,” Megatron whispered in anguish. 

The metal of his helm creaked ominously.

“No!” Megatron screamed. He lifted his arms up and brought his fists down on the guard’s helm. The casing shattered effortlessly beneath Megatron’s fists and energon shot out with the sound of grinding metal. 

The guard’s arms fell lifelessly to the ground.

Shocked, Megatron could only stare at the body. The helm was in pieces and the faceplates bent inwards grotesquely to such a degree its original form was completely unrecognizable.

Megatron raised his hands to optic level. They were covered in dark viscous liquid- energon. He had just killed a mech with those bare, stained hands. 

“No... Nonononono” Megatron whispered to himself. 

Distantly he could hear the screams and stampeding of the rioting miners. 

_No, no, no this can’t be happening._

“Do it before they kill us all!” The order was loud and clear above the chaos and Megatron looked up in time to see the bright light of military grade blasters.

Shots began to go off, each with a deep boom. Bolts of energy hit mech after mech, turning from white to orange upon impact. They blew holes into the rioters’ bodies, knocking them down dead or severely injured. 

It was a _massacre_. 

Megatron felt a blazingly intense pain shoot up his back. The force of the energy blast threw him forward and his frame hit the ground. He lay there, smoking and unconscious. 

* * *

  
  


“Of all the miners to kill Dimethyl, it had to be this one. I swear, if Shockwave hadn’t promised me something so vital, I would take him out and have him executed.” 

Megatron’s optics blinked online. His systems were slow to respond, seemingly overwhelmed by the charge the shot had delivered. He tried to move into a sitting position but was hindered by stasis cuffs keeping his arms tied behind him.

“Ah, you’re online then?” 

Megatron looked to his right and was greeted with the irritated sneer of Senator Decimus. Decimus sat on a chair while one of his attendants patched up his shoulder with a welder. 

Seven guards and four technicians, two of which were driving the ship were also in the room. They appeared to be traveling on the Senator’s personal spacecraft. 

Megatron merely dimmed his optics in response. 

“Don’t ignore me you Tarnish whore,” Decimus snarled. 

The insult was so unexpected that Megatron jerked up to look at the Senator.

Decimus gestured for his attendant to stop and got up from his seat. He walked over to where Megatron lay, slumped in the corner. “You don’t even know what’s waiting for you,” he said smugly. “A life of luxurious captivity.”

“What?” Megatron croaked. 

“You’re special.” Decimus smirked. “You killed my head guard with surprising ease.” Megatron tensed at the memory. “Have you ever looked, really looked at your spark. I’m willing to bet it’s not the same as everyone else’s. Actually, I’m rather curious. Why don’t you pop open those chest plates and we can see if I’m right.”

Megatron flinched away in revulsion and Decimus sighed. He gestured for one of the guards to come forward. 

“Open him up.” 

The guard took hold of the seams of Megatron’s chest plates and wrenched. They tore open with a shriek of stress. Megatron gasped in pain as green light filled the air. 

“Mm,” Decimus hummed. “Green instead of blue. I’ve never actually seen it before, but I suppose Shockwave was correct. As a Point One Percenter in a Cold Constructed body, you are the first ever hybrid. Congratulations."

"I'm a Point One Percenter?" Megatron frowned. He knew what that was of course. They were a miniscule percentage of the population that possessed superior gifts and qualities. They sat in the high seats of society. Megatron was aware sparks were normally blue, but he’d simply thought he possessed an abnormality. 

"Yes," Decimus confirmed. "And as you've been severely misclassified, you'll be bonded to a Noble to raise your class to Intellectual."

"No," Megatron protested. "I don't want that."

Decimus smiled cruelly. "You'll be bonded to this Noble and be forced to submit to his every whim. After all, he'll have quite a lot of influence over you- politically, socially and physically. You'll spend your days securely inside the estate and your nights in his berth, legs spread."

“But I-” Megatron shifted and a wave of pain washed over his back. He curled in on himself with a moan of pain. 

Decimus sighed. "Get him fixed up," he commanded. "Shockwave will be upset if I deliver him in this condition." 

* * *

Shockwave had had a long day. He'd worked hours on paperwork and had a meeting with the Jhiaxian Academy’s headmaster before being assaulted with ten separate passive aggressive messages from Proteus and one very aggressive message from Tyrest. 

Finally, he was done. The day was at an end, and Shockwave was locking up his office. He was closing the front door when a loud shout bordering on a snarl brought forth a sense of dread. 

"Shockwave!" 

Shockwave gently rested his forehelm on the door, letting the cool sensation center him. 

He then put on a polite smile and turned to face two familiar figures. 

"Chief Justice Tyrest, Dominus Ambus. What can I do for you?" 

"Senator Shockwave," Dominus said coldly. "We need to discuss a few things with you."

"Of course." Shockwave unlocked the door and held it open for the two. "Let's talk inside."

They entered the building, Tyrest and Dominus following Shockwave to his office. Once there, Shockwave sat behind his desk and gestured for them to take the seats opposite him. They didn't. 

Instead, Tyrest slammed his palms down the desk. "Why do you seek to constantly undermine me, Senator?" he growled. 

Shockwave had to force himself not to flinch. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

Tyrest leaned in to stare into Shockwave's optics.

"First, you convince all your political allies to push against the amendments I wanted to make to the Nominus Edict. Then you go and ignore my multiple summons to deal with internal affairs. And just when I think you can't get any more infuriating you go and get the most important mech under me into some farce of a bonding!"

Tyrest got so close his olfactory sensor skimmed Shockwave's. "What were you thinking?"

"I'd also like to know that," Dominus cut in. "You've done this without my brother's knowledge or consent and frankly, I find that despicable."

"Indeed," Tyrest agreed. "How is Minimus supposed to execute his duties as Ultra Magnus when he's saddled with responsibilities from some low class Tarnian degenerate?"

"We are also concerned about his personal and emotional well-being and upholding of his legal rights," Dominus said firmly, making it sound like a reminder.

Tyrest grunted.

"Mechs, Mechs...Brothers," Shockwave cajoled. "This was all done for a greater good. One that I'm sure Minimus himself would agree with."

"If that's the case, I'd like to hear your reasoning."

Everyone turned to see Minimus entering the office, ducking the doorframe as he went.

"Minimus," Shockwave greeted, feeling his tank drop. "I could have sworn I locked the door behind us."

Shockwave pushed his chair back to put some distance between him and Tyrest. 

"If you've done any research on your betrothed, and I know you have, Minimus, you'll know he's shaking things up on this planet with his ideas."

"You mean painting a target on his back with those ideas," Minimus deadpanned. 

"Ideas I know you agree with," Shockwave shot back. "Look, I know a revolutionary when I see one, and it's this Megatron of Tarn. He's smart, his writing is eloquently persuasive and as a Point One Percenter, the Senate has reservations about interfering. All he needs now is a platform!" 

"And I'm that platform," Minimus said, bringing a servo up to pinch his nasal ridge in frustration.

"Look at what he's written!" Shockwave pulled up something on his desk console and began to read.

_What if we didn’t need to fear a dream? What if the pictures in our minds of what we could be were motivation instead of a condemnation? What if we woke every day with hope in our sparks and freedom on our tongues? Today, tomorrow, as long as we are being deceived, it is an impossibility. We must push our dreams forward and protest with force- Dismantle the system that teaches us to fear our aspirations._

"It's just what Cybertron needs- progress, equality! 

Minimus frowned.

Shockwave threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "Minimus, you are the Ultra Magnus of Cybertron. To the people, you are the embodiment of Justice. For a mech close to you to say this, his rhetoric would _be_ justice."

"I believe you're over exaggerating," Tyrest gritted out.

"He's already got a small following that uses his writings as their ideology," Shockwave pointed out. "Imagine the good this could do at a greater scale. C'mon, Minimus, what do you say?"

Minimus suddenly looked very tired. His shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly. "I don't have a choice, unless you can reverse the arrangement?"

"I can't," Shockwave said apologetically. "It’s been ordered by the Prime himself."

"That's what I thought." Minimus murmured miserably.

"Cheer up! I bet he'll be a lovely Conjunx. And besides, Megatron Ambus has a nice ring to it."

Shockwave's proclamation was met with stony silence. 

"If it makes it any better, I'll take care of the ceremony- all costs and planning on me," Shockwave offered. 

"Organization is the duty of the mech's House," Dominus interjected. "The Ambus house will be making all the arrangements."

"Fine by me." Shockwave shifted in his chair. "There is a list of requirements that the Senate imposes for these types of unions. I'll have it sent to you."

"Thank you," said Dominus stiffly. 

Shockwave turned his attention back to Minimus. "I'd appreciate it if you wore your armor during the ceremony. This is meant to be a statement."

"That is acceptable," Minimus said quietly. He turned on his heels and left the room, Dominus trailing after. 

"I'm sorry!" Shockwave called after them.

Tyrest snorted. "No, you're not." 

Shockwave gave him a long look before getting to his feet. "You're right. I'm not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... everyone's a bit miserable at the moment, but the plot continues! If you enjoyed, please, leave a comment! All input is loved!


	4. Part 1 Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! A lot of this chapter is from Megatron's POV and because of that, there is consistent misgendering of a character. It stems from Cybertronians' lack of knowledge about gender, not ignorance or malice on the author's part. 
> 
> I'm sorry if this bothers or makes anyone uncomfortable!

The ship ride was excruciatingly long. After one of the attendants had reluctantly patched up Megatron's back, he lay restrained on the floor in muted pain. 

He could feel the stares of the other mechs on board and felt uncomfortably vulnerable under them. Even more uncomfortable was the confusion and helplessness he was feeling. 

Was he the only survivor? If not, what was going to happen to the remaining miners? And the biggest question yet: what was going to happen to him? Clearly not death. If Decimus was to be believed, he was being sold off as some Noble’s berth toy.

There was a strange sort of irony to it. In the low class he was trapped, now, supposedly in the highest class, he was still trapped. Either way, he was just a convenient tool to be used and then disposed of.

The ship started to rumble, and Megatron felt the beginnings of a landing. He checked his chronometer. Three hours had passed since he'd woken up.

The technicians were beginning to move, whirling around each other while pushing buttons and typing coordinates.

"Thrusters engaged," one technician said. "Waiting for the ground signal."

Megatron watched as the technician at the helm activated several systems through his console. "We are now landing, Senator."

The shuttle's vibrations increased and Megatron felt nauseous with the movement. 

With a loud boom that traveled through the metal interior, the ship landed. The echoes of impact lingered and Megatron grit his denta to ignore the sensation. 

Decimus left his spot by the window. All of the guards except two made their way to his side. The other two approached Megatron. Each one reached down to grab him under an arm, then together, hauled him to his pedes. 

Even though he was restrained and in pain, the guards each kept a tight grip on his upper arms. They marched him out of the shuttle behind Senator Decimus.

Cybertron's natural light hit Megatron when they stepped out onto the exit ramp. It was much less harsh than those of the shuttle and Megatron had to reset his optics a couple times.

Megatron looked around. Space crafts of all makes and sizes sat waiting for passengers. Judging by the guards and enforcers roaming the area, Megatron guessed they were in a government space port. 

He was barely afforded a moment to acclimate to his new surroundings before Decimus began strutting down the ramp. His cape flew out behind him, fluttering perfectly.

Megatron's captors shoved him forward to follow, but he tripped on the sharp decline of the ramp. The only thing that kept him from falling on his face were the guards at his sides.

At the sound of stumbling Decimus turned to look over his shoulder. He caught sight of the guard's steading Megatron and smirked, before resuming his path. Megatron felt his engine growl in indignation. 

They journeyed across the port and Megatron took in the sights of facilities that were most certainly off limits for the public. 

The mechs milling about gave their entourage quick curious glances, but kept to themselves. As strange as this picture must have looked, fear of annoying the Senator made them hold their glossas. 

Finally, their group arrived at a large intimidating compound. The inside was bare with mechs guarding various doors. Decimus led them through a doorway into what could be described as a waiting room.

The interior was still depressingly empty with grey metal walls, but a few chairs lined the sides of the room. There was also a front desk with a stern looking Military class mech standing behind it.

Talking to that mech was a very surprising sight. A blue and grey minibot was standing about a foot away from the tall desk to make proper optic contact with the military mech. 

Megatron tried to make out their conversation, but Decimus was addressing his guards unnecessarily loudly. 

"Put him in the transport and send him over to Shockwave's residence." 

Decimus met Megatron's optics. His smirk grew into the approximation of a grin. "Well, this is where we part. You'll have a very comfortable life from this point onwards, Megatron of Tarn." 

Megatron could hear the mockery dripping from Decimus's lips. 

The guard's forcibly turned him and were about to take him to the transport, but a voice interrupted them.

"Megatron of Tarn?"

The minibot coming across the room towards them, blue optics sharp. 

"Finally," the minibot exclaimed. "I kept asking when you'd arrive but all they'd say is ‘it's classified’. Like talking to a broken recorder."

He stopped directly in front of Megatron, boldly ignoring the Senator and his guards. "Well, if these gentlemechs will kindly take off the stasis cuffs, we'll be on our way."

Decimus stared down his olfactory sensor at the minibot. "I'm sorry," he said tightly. "Who are you?"

"Oh, I apologize," the minibot said, though he didn't seem the least bit apologetic. "My name is Nickel. I am a servant of the Ambus House and am here on behalf of Minimus Ambus to escort his intended to the residence." 

Decimus smiled thinly. "I believe you've come for nothing. Shockwave told me to send the intended to him after pick up. Besides, do you even have clearance to be here?"

Nickel pulled out a small data pad, opened it, and held it up for Decimus to read. "Yes I have clearance. It's signed for by the Ultra Magnus."

Decimus took the datapad and scoured the contents.

Nickel put his hands on his hips. "If you read it there's actually an order in there specifically stating Shockwave is not to have contact with the intended directly after pick up.”

Decimus’s face soured as he read the datapad, presumably coming across the section Nickel was referring to. “Very well,” he relented. “Guards, please release him.”

The moment they snapped off the cuffs, Megatron felt himself stabilize. His systems came back online, and his HUD popped up with injury reports. He quickly dismissed them, intimately aware of the damage his frame had sustained. 

Senator Decimus gave Megatron one last look of disdain. “Give my regards to your new conjunx,” he said smugly before taking his leave, guards following him back inside the compound. 

The moment Decimus disappeared, Nickel huffed a sharp ventilation. “Slagger,” he muttered.

Megatron almost did a double take at the minibot’s daring. Even if the Senator was no longer in audial shot, insulting a higher caste mech in the open took big bearings.

Nickel, as if sensing Megatron’s thoughts gave him a wry smile. “Why, don’t we get going,” he suggested. “I’ve been told not to linger after picking you up.” 

_No doubt an order from my conjunx to be_ Megatron thought bitterly. 

Nickel began walking to the exit, or rolling to be more accurate. Instead of pedes, his legs tapered into wheels. 

Nickel led him outside the compound into a fairly desolate part of wherever they were. The towers and buildings clearly marked their location as a city, but Megatron was unsure as to which. Other than the transport Nickel was leading him to, the streets were empty despite the daylight marking it as mid-day. Megatron supposed it made sense for a government compound to be built in a secluded sector. Now that Megatron thought about it, Nickel had had to get authorization to enter the compound. That was probably required to enter the general area. 

The transport was large and sleek with a series of symbols on the side that Megatron couldn’t understand. It was worlds different from the clunky dirty transports of the mines and held a strangely beautiful quality.

The transport doors slid open and Nickel gestured for him to get inside. 

The interior of the transport was as impressive as the outside. It was spacious and clean with windows on either side and pleasantly warm lighting that filled the space. Smooth silver paint coated the walls and purple curtains lined the windows. The seats were covered by comfortable purple cushions that sunk accommodatingly beneath Megatron’s weight. 

Nickel climbed in after him, taking the seating across from him. The doors shut and without a moment to waste, the transport sped off. 

Nickel immediately took out a datapad and began reading something. Ever so often he’d mutter something and tap or swipe at the screen. 

Megatron waited in silence a few moments before curiosity won. He pulled back the delicate curtains only the necessary amount and peeked out the window. 

The longer they traveled, the more activity picked up. Mechs began appearing on the streets- socializing, shopping and going about their daily business.

Whatever city they were in was dazzling. The towers glittered in the sunlight and screens with advertisements running across them were mounted everywhere. Above them, Megatron could just make out the skylane where mechs with flight alts cruised through the air, leaving contrails behind. 

Megatron caught a glimpse of a beautifully complexly designed building in the distance and immediately recognized it as the Grand Imperium. 

_I’m back in Iacon_ Megatron thought breathlessly. He’d only ever been in the seedier districts of the city. It seemed unthinkable this was the same Iacon he’d worked and been arrested in. 

“How long has it been since you’ve had a proper cleaning?” The question drew Megatron from his eager observation of the surroundings. 

He looked away from the window to Nickel, who was still tapping away on the datapad.

Almost absentmindedly, Nickel pointed to the curtain, then to the upholstery. On the curtains where Megatron had grabbed to pull them to the side were stains of dirt and oil in the shape of fingerprints. Similarly, on the cushions where Megatron had scooted across to get closer to the window resided a coat of grime. 

Megatron felt a hot flash of embarrassment.

Nickel took his silence as an answer. “Right,” he said decisively. “We’ll make a quick stop by the spa and get you looking like a proper conjunx.”

It was like being dunked in a vat of cold oil. It wasn’t as if Megatron had forgotten he was to be bonded, but the beauty of the city had distracted him from that reality. 

He wanted to shout at Nickel, curse him for being complicit in this. But what would that do? The minibot was a servant and simply doing his job. Instead, Megatron looked back out the window. 

They arrived at the spa quickly. It was an impressively big establishment made out of bricks of pretty white quartz. Nickel and Megatron exited the transport and entered the building.

The inside was teeming with glossy high class mechs. At the front desk was a slim pretty mech with a gorgeous finish. Nickel rolled straight up to him and started to talk, leaving Megatron to wait behind him.

Megatron could feel the stares and the whispers of the customers. A couple giggles rang clear through the loud murmuring and Megatron lowered his audial sensitivity. Still, he could make out a few phrases.

“Is he allowed in here?”

“Absolutely filthy. Do lower castes have no shame?”

“As if polish will make it more appealing.” 

Megatron turned down the sensitivity even further.

The mech at the front desk nodded at something Nickel said. “Of course we can fit you in,” he said with forced amiability. He pointed to a wide doorway. “Take that hallway until you find room twenty-two. Someone will be with you shortly.” 

Nickel thanked him and rolled off in the pointed direction. Megatron followed, careful not to make optic contact with any of the customers. 

Room twenty-two sat near the end of the hallway. Inside was a narrow berth that curved upwards at the head, a stool, a table covered in cosmetic products, and a drawer that probably contained more products. 

Nickel sat on the stool, optics glued to the datapad while Megatron stood by the berth, not trusting the small thing to withstand his weight. 

After a few minutes of waiting, the door flew open and in came a spindly bright green mech. He took one look at Megatron and audibly groaned. 

He pointed at Megatron aggressively. “You,” he barked. “Follow me, we’re going to the wash racks.”

The mech led Megatron out of the room and into a large fancy wash rack. He shoved, or at least he tried to shove the much bigger mech under the shower head. Undeterred, the mech handed Megatron an opened jar of solvents.

“Cover yourself in that,” he ordered, then turned and began fiddling with something on the wall.

Megatron looked down at the jar. It was a small container, dwarfed by his wide dark hands. The solvents were clear with a gelatinous quality- almost a cream of sorts. Megatron took a sniff and the pleasant scent of Trobulum filled his olfactory sensor.

Gingerly, he stuck a digit in the container, picking up a glob of the substance. He smeared it on his chassis and rubbed it around to cover the entire surface. He repeated the process until his entire frame was covered, minus his back plating and other hard to reach areas. When he’d finished, the jar was nearly empty. 

The mech saw that Megatron was done and with a click, turned on the head of one of the sonic showers. Before Megatron could get under the spray, the mech grabbed the shower head, pulling it off its wall rest. 

He then increased the pressure of the spray, turned the head, and began roughly hosing Megatron down like a piece of equipment.

Megatron felt energon heat in his faceplates and the treatment. The mech was acting as if the dignity of washing oneself was too good for the lower class.

It was humiliating. 

As quickly as the degradation had begun, it ended. A mixture of sludge, solvents and water swirled at Megatron’s pedes, slowly sliding down the drain. 

The mech hung up the shower head and pressed a button. A sudden blast of hot air burst from the ceiling, evaporating the liquid and drying Megatron’s frame in a matter of seconds.

After pressing the button again to end the air flow, the mech walked out of the room, clearly expecting Megatron to follow.

He did. 

Once back inside room twenty-two, the mech made Megatron sit on the berth. It creaked worryingly beneath his mass, but stayed in one piece. 

The mech rooted around in the drawer, coming up with two tins. He placed one on the table and popped the other one open. Immediately the smell of high quality polish filled the room. 

He applied the polish to a buffer then set to work on Megatron’s frame.

The feeling wasn’t unpleasant, but Megatron found he didn’t enjoy the sensation. It felt like someone was vigorously rubbing every spot the buffer touched. It tickled, and every so often set off little strange tinges of charge along his plating. 

After polishing Megatron’s arms, legs, pedes, helm and chassis back and front, the mech put down the buffer. He grabbed a white cloth and the second tin, opening it with a crack. He dipped the cloth in the substance then gripped the side of Megatron’s helm firmly.

He rubbed the cloth along Megatron’s faceplates, taking care to get every inch. 

This was unpleasant. 

The odor coming off the substance on the cloth made Megatron gag, especially when it got close to his olfactory sensor and intake. The mech simply gripped his helm harder and sped up his efforts.

Thankfully, that procedure took much less time than the buffering had. The mech put down his materials, said, “You’re done,” and left the room with no further words.

Once Nickel had paid the mech at the front desk, they got back into the transport and took off. Megatron turned off his optics and sunk into the seat, trying to figure out where to put the anger, sadness, and shame swirling inside him. 

For the entirety of the trip, silence filled the air. 

It was maybe half an hour before they arrived at their destination. 

The transport came to a smooth halt and the door opened. Nickel hopped out first and Megatron lumbered after him. 

“Welcome to one of the Ambus Estates,” Nickel announced. 

The Estate was short compared to the many towers of the city. But what it lacked in height it made up for in length. The mansion was two stories and nearly half a city block long with intricately shaped black fencing around the borders. Beautiful crystal gardens stood proudly on the property, further emphasizing the amount of money its owners possessed. It was what Megatron had been expecting. 

Nickel walked up to the fence, scanned something and the gates opened, revealing a well-maintained path to the front door. They approached the door and once again, Nickel scanned something on a security pad and the door opened. 

The inside of the Estate kind of like the inside of the transport: Roomy and bright with beautiful decoration. The first thing that greeted Megatron’s optics was the massive staircase in front of him and an equally massive, terrifying delicate chandelier that hung overhead. The floors were spotless and looked as if no one had ever walked upon them. 

Nickel took him into a room off of the main entrance. Compared to the rest of the mansion, the room was small. It was home to two couches and a love seat that sat around a holocaster.

Nickel directed him to sit on the slightly bigger couch, while he made himself comfortable on the love seat. Nickel gave Megatron a hard look before sighing.

“Before you become part of the House of Ambus,” he explained. “It is required that you share some essential information about yourself.”

Megatron, realizing he couldn’t really say no, nodded.

Nickel pulled something up on his datapad, then began his line of questioning.

“Have you ever carried before, and if so, did you make it to term?”

Megatron shifted uncomfortably, already hating the direction of this.

“No.”

“You are aware you will be required to interface with your new conjunx on your bonding night?”

“I-” Megatron stopped, trying to process the weight of that information. “I...am now?”

“When was the last time you interfaced?”

“Maybe three vorns ago?”

“What acts did you participate in?”

“Valve and spike,” Megatron admitted quietly. 

“How many interfacing partners have you had?”

Megatron shrugged and Nickel typed something down. The questions felt in line to what an enforcer might drill a buymech on after arrest. It was as if the day was purposefully putting Megatron through more and more humiliation. 

“Do you still have your valve seal?”

An exasperated voice saved Megatron from having to answer. 

“Nickel, I told you this questionnaire didn’t need to be carried out, despite what Fortis said.”

Megatron turned to see another minibot in the entryway. He was a little taller than Nickel with a visor and red face mask. Judging by the mech’s lack of kibble, Megatron suspected that he might be in the Disposable class.

Nickel rolled his optics. “Between you and the head of the entire House, who do you think I’m going to listen to, Rewind?”

Nickel hopped off the seat and rolled out of the room, grumbling. “I’ll stop, but I’m not going to be the one to explain that to Fortis Ambus.” With that said, Nickel was gone. 

The mech, who Megatron was guessing was Rewind shook his head. “Sorry, about her,” he said with sympathy. “I know those questions are deeply personal.”

 _Her._ The glyph didn’t register a meaning in Megatron’s head. It bounced around while his processor tried to match a definition. 

The minibot, seemingly unaware of Megatron’s confusion, walked up the couch and held out a hand. “The name’s Rewind. It’s nice to meet you.”

Megatron shook Rewind’s hand. “Likewise,” he said. “My name is Megatron.” 

“Oh, I know!” Rewind declared brightly. “It'd be impossible to live here and not know.”

Rewind pulled himself up onto the couch with a surprising amount of grace. He settled on the arm of the couch to better be able to look Megatron in the optics.

If I know anything about how most high class mechs think, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say nobody has told you anything about your new circumstances.”

“I have been misclassified and will be bonded to a Noble?” Megatron offered.

Rewind hummed in affirmation. “Do you know who you’ll be bonded to?”

Megatron shook his head.

“Minimus Ambus, the Ultra Magnus of Cybertron.” 

Megatron knew only the basics about the Ultra Magnus: It was a position instituted during Chief Justice Tyrest’s rise to power and the mech that possessed the title oversaw all enforcer departments. 

_Likely a mech that enforces and believes in the righteousness of functionist law,_ Megatron thought resentfully.

“If I may ask,” Megatron ventured. “What is your role here?”

Rewind’s visor brightened. “I am the-” he paused, as if searching for the correct word. “Conjunx of Dominus Ambus. Though I suppose not legally.” That last part was said softly and the Rewind wilted slightly with the admission.

 _Definitely Disposable Class,_ Megatron thought unhappily. Members of the Disposable class were not legally allowed to bond. This was curious though. Megatron had never heard of a Noble having any sort of mutual romantic relationship with someone so far below their station. 

Rewind perked up again. “Of course, you’ll be Minimus’s legal conjunx and become a part of the Ambus House.” 

Megatron swallowed thickly and it was only then that Rewind noticed his unease. 

“I know that this is very sudden and honestly, a little frightening, but Minimus is a great mech. He’s going to take good care of you.”

Megatron knew Rewind was trying to comfort him, but those words only invoked a sense of distress. For a Disposable, being taken care of was the best plausible situation. Respect and free-will were not considerations for a class barely considered sentient. Consent was irrelevant in the face of an opportunity for safety and survival. 

Megatron fought the urge to shake the Rewind and explain this. The minibot was obviously happy and there was no need to shatter that. Instead he hid his clenched fists behind the couch pillows and said, “I’m sure he will.” 

Rewind slid off the armrest and then onto the floor. “Minimus and Dominus should be home soon. I can show you to your room if you’d like?” 

“I would,” Megatron answered. “He got out of the couch and followed Rewind out of the room, slowing and shortening his paces so the minibot could stay ahead. 

Rewind led him back into the main entrance and then up the massive staircase to the second floor. They traveled through a winding hallway before arriving in front of an impressively tall pair of double doors.

Rewind looked at Megatron apologetically. “They’re a tad bit heavy for me to move…”

Megatron took the hint and pushed open the doors himself. Inside was a berthroom that should have been lavish, but simply came across as empty. The room was wide with a towering ceiling. The far wall was made up of window panels that showed off the beauty of the city. The berth was frankly colossal, even for someone of Megatron’s size. There was a desk in the corner covered in datapads, but other than that, the room held no furniture or decoration. The walls were bare and there didn’t seem to be any personal possessions of any kind.

It reminded Megatron of the mining barracks in some strange way. And even stranger, it felt familiar-- right. 

“This is Minimus’s Ambus’s room?” he asked.

Rewind nodded. “Well, it’s now yours too.”

“If you don’t mind,” Megatron said. “I’d like to take a quick recharge before my intended arrives.”

“Of course,” Rewind exclaimed, backing out of the room as he talked. “You must be very tired.”

“It’s been a long day,” Megatron agreed wearily. 

Rewind was about to leave when Megatron called out suddenly.

“One more question before you go?”

“Ask as many as you want,” Rewind said confidently.

“What is a Her?”

Rewind’s tapped a digit to his mask, trying to think of a proper answer. “It’s a demonstrative,” he began slowly, visibly working out how to explain it. “You know what He is, correct?”

Megatron’s processor immediately brought up the definition.

_He: A demonstrative used to refer to a single Cybertronian._

Megatron nodded.

“It’s like that, but kind of the opposite, or not the opposite...It’s a wider representation of gender and expression. It’s in reference to a female population.”

The words gender and female bounced around Megatron’s processor the same way Her did, coming up without a definition or reference. 

Rewind laughed good naturedly. “Sorry, sorry,” he chuckled. “I’m just confusing you more. Her is how Nickel wants to be addressed. I’ll get Dominus to explain it later. He’s much more knowledgeable than me.

Rewind left and Megatron closed the doors behind him. He walked further into the room, settling down on the berth. It was cold, even with the luxury of sheets beneath him.

Desperate to escape the thoughts of C-12, Megatron shut off his optics and fell into recharge.

* * *

“He’s at home?” Minimus croaked.

Dominus nodded, then grimaced, digit still pressed at his comm. “Rewind just commed me. Annnnd now he’s arguing with Nickel.” 

And sure enough, Minimus could hear two familiar voices bleeding through Dominus’s comm. It must have been excruciating loud on Dominus’s end if he could hear it

“Rewind dear,” Dominus said. He grimaced then spoke louder. “My love, you’re still on your comm.”

A moment, then indecipherable yelling became audible. Dominus winced. He shifted his digit, angled himself away from Minimus and shouted into the comm. “REWIND, PLEASE HANG UP!”

The comm connection crackled then went dead. Dominus turned back around and gave a sheepish smile. “You know how they get.”

Minimus cracked a small smile. Any interaction between Nickel and Rewind inevitably turned into an argument. “I do, but can we return to the topic at hand?”

Dominus sighed. “As underhanded as Shockwave’s actions were, this is nothing you haven’t prepared for. Our house could have arranged a political bonding alliance for you anytime during your functioning. Just treat it the same way.”

“It’s not the same,” Minimus groaned, burying his helm in his hands. “At least in a political bonding I would know my intended. We’ve all met at some point in time. And we both would be aware of the expectations. This poor mech has been pulled away from what he knows to be bonded to me. Noble Conjunx roles are hardly easy to adapt to, even when you’ve been raised to live in them!”

“Minimus, look at me.” 

Minimus raised his helm and found Dominus smiling softly at him. “Even when things are unfair to you, you’re already thinking about the well-being of others.” 

Dominus stroked his facial insignia thoughtfully. “We know what will be expected of your intended: to be submissive, non-threatening, and to not think or act for himself. That’s what’s expected, not required. There are laws allowing the oppression of a Noble’s conjunx. There are no laws obligating you to do so.” 

Dominus’s smile grew. “Who’s going to stop you? Parson, Influx, Fortis? Please, you know Fortis won’t. He’s already happy that a House member possesses such a powerful government position. Go home, meet this Megatron of Tarn and make the most of the situation.”

“Alright,” Minimus agreed shakily. 

The trip back to the estate had Minimus trying not to think of what could go wrong. He and Dominus took a public transport then walked the rest of the way. 

Once inside the estate, Dominus patted Minimus on the back. “Rewind says he’s in your room. Good luck.” Dominus padded off, probably to find Rewind, leaving Minimus at the bottom of the stairs to steel his nerves.

Briefly, Minimus considered removing his armor. It would be their first time meeting. Minimus dismissed the thought, deciding he felt more secure inside the armor. He ascended the stairs and made his way to his berthroom.

Minimus entered the room and shut the doors behind himself. The click of the door caused a figure on Minimus’s berth to shoot up, suddenly awake. 

It was then that Minimus got his first look at Megatron of Tarn. He was the epitome of a Manual class mech with his large strong frame and kibble that indicated a heavy duty alt. He was a silver grey with darker paint on his hands, helm, pedes and pelvic area. Construction marking lined parts of his frame, distinguishing him as a miner.

Deep red optics flickered at him, gradually becoming more alert.

Minimus slowly approached the berth, keeping his hands in the open. “I am Minimus Ambus of Ambustus Minor, the mech you’ll be bonded to,” he introduced.

“Megatron of Tarn,” the other greeted, optics wary. His voice was deep and gravelly and Minimus found it oddly grounding.

Choosing to take a more traditional route, Minimus bowed deeply, hand held outward and palm up to Megatron. “It is a joy to see you made it here safely.”

“Thank you.”

Minimus stood up from his bow and was suddenly aware of their positions. Because he was standing and Megatron sitting, Minimus’s armored frame loomed over Megatron, forcing the other to speak up to him.

Minimus gestured towards the berth. “May I sit?” he asked.

Megatron scooted aside in wordless acceptance, and Minimus sat, evening out their heights. 

A moment of awkward silence passed before Megatron spoke. “When will we be bonded?”

Minimus internally cried in relief. This was an explanation. Explanations he could do.

“Our conjunx ceremony will take place three days from now.”

Megatron looked shocked. “So soon?” he asked, voice raspy.

“There are guidelines to these unions,” Minimus said unhappily. “One of which is they must happen as soon as possible. I believe it is to decrease the chance of a mech running away or finding a way to oppose the union. In any case, that’s all the time my House could negotiate to arrange the ceremony.” 

Minimus pulled a datapad from his subspace and handed it to Megatron. “There are actually a few guidelines you should be familiar with. One of which is the parameters for the contents of your vows. Please, take a look at that as soon as you can.” 

Another moment of painfully uncomfortable silence went by before Minimus thought of something else to say.

“Is there anyone you wish to invite to the ceremony?”

Megatron’s optics looked surprised then melancholy as if remembering something particularly painful. Finally, he met Minimus’s optics and said, “Impactor of Iacon. Though he might still be in jail. I don’t think he had enough to make bail.”

“That’s fine,” Minimus assured him. “I promise I’ll do my best to ensure your friend attends.”

Megatron set the datapad down on the other side of the berth and gave Minimus a calculating look. “What do you want?” he asked, expression still wary. “You don’t need to act like you’re ok with this.”

In hindsight, Minimus realised what he said next was neither comforting nor a real answer to Megatron’s question. It was an old Noble saying that, for some reason, popped into Minimus’s processor. He recited it almost mindlessly.

“Forces greater than you or I have placed us where we are. For honor and integrity’s sake, let us work towards a common goal and forge our content if it is not yet there.” 

Megatron stared at him intently, and with every second Minimus felt his mortification grow.

Finally, Megatron raised an optical ridge. “Forge as in to create or to fake?” he asked, humour tingeing his voice.

Minimus ran the saying back through his processor and found he wasn’t sure. He’d always assumed the positive and that the phrase meant for two individuals to make their own happiness. Looking back over it, he saw it could be interpreted either way.

“I suppose whichever way we want it to mean.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This guy was a longer chapter, hope you guys enjoyed! Please, leave a comment below!


	5. Part 1 Chapter 5

Three days was not enough. Minimus knew that the timeframe was much worse for his house members planning the event, but he still had so many tasks to complete. It wasn’t like his duties had disappeared, despite what his subordinates thought. 

Minimus winced. He’d tried to go in for work several times, but on each attempt, his team shooed him away.

“Relax, Minimus. You’ve got a bonding to worry about,” Ramp had told him. “We can hold down the fort in the meantime. Just think of this as your vacation time.”

Minimus huffed. In his entire career he’d taken no vacation time or days off. He saw no reason to begin now. So instead, Minimus snuck some paperwork home and hoped no one would check for those particular documents. 

In addition to his work, Minimus had to locate Megatron’s friend, write his vows, ensure Megatron was familiar with the ceremony procedure, and beg Dominus to convince their house members to cancel the reservation of the honeymoon suite. 

The first thing Minimus did after excusing himself from the berthroom and from Megatron was type in, Impactor of Iacon into the enforcement database. 

There was an immediate match. This Impactor was arrested after a bar brawl on charges of disorderly conduct as well as assault and battery. He was first sent to the Deltaran Medical Facility and was currently being kept in the second sector Iacon Enforcer station. 

Minimus took a look at the bail and grimly thought Megatron was correct. There was no way a simple miner could afford that sum. 

Deciding it would be best to see this out personally, Minimus sent a message to the station. A few moments later he got a response informing him Iacon Enforcement Station second sector would be honored to accommodate his visitation.

The sky was beginning to darken with the hour, but Minimus estimated he could make it to the station before closing hours. Messaging Dominus to tell him he was leaving, Minimus left the estate to travel to the enforcement station. 

Just as Minimus had predicted, he arrived at the station an hour before closure. He entered the building and the mech at the front desk looked up at the sound. 

His optics went wide and wide with surprised recognition.

“Ultra Magnus, Sir!” the mech stammered. “We’d thought you'd come in first thing tomorrow.” He hurriedly stood up from the desk and saluted.

The mech was familiar, and with start, Minimus realized he'd talked to him at the last enforcement gala. Lieutenant Oversteer if Minimus’s memory served him correctly.

“At ease,” Minimus said. 

Oversteer moved out of the salute but remained standing, frame visibly tense.

Minimus walked the rest of the way to the desk. “I’m looking to pay bail on an Impactor of Iacon. I sincerely apologize for requesting this so late in the day, but it’s an urgent matter.” 

Oversteer typed something into the system then ducked below the desk. He came back up with the appropriate documents and slid them across the surface for Minimus to sign.

“You’re actually just in time, sir,” Oversteer said. “We were preparing to transfer him back to the Rodion department to await trial. A few more days and you’d have had to travel there instead.”

“Rodion isn’t that far of a trip to make,” Minimus said, still eyeing the documents.

Although Rodion was technically a City-state, many considered it a part of Iacon. It was close enough and fairly small compared to Iacon.

 _That is strange, Minimus_ thought. He’d received a report from Captain Orion Pax stating that the Rodion Enforcement station was investigating internal corruption and as such, would no longer be taking transfers until the investigation was finished. 

He’d approved the measure. Orion was one of the most trustworthy and capable of the force. If Rodion was accepting prisoner transfers again that meant Orion must be satisfied with the outcome of the investigation. Minimus supposed he’d be getting a report about that relatively soon.

Minimus was beginning to read over the transaction section when Oversteer cleared his vocalizer.

“Ah, Sir,” he began awkwardly.

Minimus looked up in acknowledgement. 

“You know you don’t have to pay the bail, Sir. I mean, you are the Ultra Magnus. Nobody would look twice or protest if you didn’t.”

Minimus’s optics narrowed. He didn’t like where this was going. He finished signing the forms and straightened, looking straight at Oversteer.

“The laws are not conditional based on status,” he said sternly. “I am paying this fee just like every other Cybertronian citizen would be required to.”

Thoroughly chastised, Overseer initiated the shanix transfer then disappeared into the back to access the jail cells.

He returned with a yellow and purple Manual Class mech who appeared very confused. 

“Impactor of Iacon,” Minimus greeted.

Impactor’s lips pulled back into a smile and with the elegance of a jackhammer, drawled, “Who’re you?” 

Oversteer grimaced. “Show some respect. This is the Ultra Magnus of-”

“Please, Lieutenant,” Minimus interrupted. “I can introduce myself.”

“Of course, Sir. Sorry, Sir.” Oversteer hurried back to the desk where he sat back down. 

Minimus turned his attention back to Impactor. “My name is Minimus Ambus. As was stated, I am the Ultra Magnus. I am here to pay your bail to get you released until your trial.”

Impactor stretched his neck cables, showing an air of nonchalance. “Yeah, that much is obvious, mech. Why’s the enforcer head honcho doin’ me any favors?” 

Minimus glanced over at Oversteer who appeared to be trying his hardest to look as if he wasn’t paying attention to their conversation. “Why don’t we head outside to talk further?” Minimus suggested. Impactor nodded and the two started walking out of the station.

“Don’t forget your court dates,” Oversteer shouted after them.

“Yeah, yeah,” Impactor called back dismissively. “You lot have ingrained them in my processor with how much ya repeat that.”

Once outside, they stopped at the base of the Station’s stairs and stood, facing one another. 

“So….” Impactor prompted. 

“I am here on behalf of Megatron.”

Impactor’s optics narrowed.

“And why would that be?”

Minimus sighed heavily. “We have been betrothed on behalf of the Senate and Prime and Megatron would like for you to attend the ceremony.” 

That shocked Impactor into silence. His optics reset a couple times and then he was angry. Minimus had worked as an enforcer for years before climbing the ranks. He was intimately familiar with the telltale signs of aggression. The tension in the frame, the twisted expression on the faceplates, that subtle engine growl that slowly grew louder: Impactor was displaying them all. 

“Why don’t I buy you a drink and we can talk a little more ‘bout this. Privately,” Impactor bit out. 

It was an unexpected invitation. One filled with insincerity and anger, but one Minimus thought to be ultimately advantageous. 

“I would be glad to. Though I must warn you, I don’t drink.” 

“That’s fine,” Impactor rumbled. “Plain Ol’ energon works too.” 

Impactor took him to a bar on the seedier side. He led them inside and to a secluded booth. A waiter ambled over to take their orders then slid back behind the bar counter.

“Think you're silencing him, huh?” Impactor snarled. “Don’t got the bearings to kill him ‘cause of his little fan base?”

Minimus shook his helm. “I’ll be doing nothing of the sort.”

The waiter came back, dropping their drinks off. Impactor took a long swig of his drink, letting the cup fall back onto the table with a heavy thunk. 

He scowled at Minimus. “I know how you high class tower mechs treat your lovers, and let me tell you.” He leaned over the table to get in Minimus’s face. “I don’t care who the hell you are. I’ll put my fist right through your chest plate.”

At this point, Minimus was worried Impactor might actually try to attack him. That would have been completely counterproductive to what Minimus really wanted.

“I know how this looks,” Minimus said warily. “However, I am not looking to imprison or abuse Megatron in any way. This arrangement wasn’t my idea or done with my permission. If he wants to keep writing I won’t stop him, even if it is somewhat dangerous. If he wants to do something completely different, I won’t stop him. That’s not the kind of Cybertronian I am.” 

Impactor drew back, sinking into his seat. He took another drink, watching Minimus as he did so.

“I know about the writings he’s put out since I’ve last seen him.” Impactor said sullenly. “I might not understand his pretty words, but I know others do. The hope and ideas it’s spreading to people like us.”

“I’ve read some of his work, and it is indeed, inspirational.” 

Impactor looked at him skeptically. “Alright, sure. Where and when’s this party taking place anyway?”

“In three days at the Grand Imperium’s temple.”

“That place is huge. You need that much space for a small bonding ceremony?”

Minimus wrapped his hands around the cool glass of his energon and took a sip. “There is nothing small about the bonding. It is to be broadcasted and if I’m estimating the guest list with all the politicians, enforcers, the prime and his entourage, officials, my House members, House associates and other nobles and the plus ones….Upwards of four hundred mechs will be attending.” 

“Four hundred! All to witness you and Megs bonding?”

Impactor peered down into his empty glass. “Shoulda killed ya on the way down here,” he muttered. 

Minimus felt the surge of his weapons systems trying to online. “Was that a threat?”

“Nah. I’m not that stupid. You look more than capable of holding yourself in a fight. And if some big shot like you disappeared, they’d start searching for ya real quick.” Impactor pulled out a handful of shanix and put it on the table. “Think of this as your shovel talk.”

He stood from the table. “I better be off. Gotta see if I still got a job at the mines.” He gave Minimus a wave over his shoulder as he left. “See you in three days.”

* * *

Megatron woke up early on the day of his bonding ceremony. It was still dark out and he lay alone in the berth. In Megatron’s time living at the estate, he and Minimus hadn’t slept in the same berth once. He’d heard Rewind mention in passing that Minimus had taken to recharging in the estate’s office.

It was a courtesy that Megatron knew would change after they bonded. He quickly banished that thought and offlined his optics. 

Before he could slip back into recharge, a loud knocking on the door began. 

“Come in,” Megatron called. 

The double doors opened and in stepped Dominus Ambus. Over the past three days, Megatron hadn’t really gotten the opportunity to speak to Dominus. The mech had been wrapped up in planning. It was surprising that he and Minimus were spark brothers as they looked nothing alike, but they had similar polite demeanors. 

“I know it is rather early,” Dominus said. “But you are needed to begin preparations.”

“Paint job?” Megatron asked tiredly. Minimus had gone over what to expect today, and that seemed the most likely reason Dominus was pulling him away from the berthroom.” 

“You don’t have to sound so disappointed,” Dominus said. “This is the easiest part of your day.” 

“Yes...easy,” Megatron rumbled. 

Megatron got out of the berth and walked with Dominus to the transport waiting outside. The transport dropped them off at the Grand imperium and Dominus led him into a side room.

Inside was frankly, too many mechs for Megatron's comfort. They sat him down and began the process of cleaning; touch ups to his base paint coat and polishing. 

Hours passed. Megatron spent them writing little pieces in his head, going through his vows internally and spacing out. Anything to make time pass faster. 

They were finishing up detailing his frame when someone rapped on the door. Then, without waiting for a response, flung it open. In walked an unfamiliar figure.

“Is he ready yet? The guests are seated and Minimus is waiting at the altar with the priest.”

“Just about, Senator Shockwave,” one of the mechs replied. There were a couple more delicate brush strokes across Megatron’s faceplates. The mech then hummed in satisfaction and brought over a mirror for Megatron to look. 

They hadn’t changed anything about his base color, choosing instead to remove the construction tape and apply a smooth new coat of the same color. 

The detailing was what shined through. Beautiful rivets of gold paint decorated his frame. They curled around the edges of his helm, coming down and turning into shadows of gold under his optics. A single thick line ran down his chin guard, flowing seamlessly into lines that were so simple, yet unimaginably intricate. They were painted over his shoulders, arms, chassis, and legs, emphasizing every angle of his frame, making his clunky frame somehow look elegant.

Shockwave whistled lowly. “Mins is going to thank me later,” he said smugly. 

Megatron wasn’t sure what the context behind that was, but he thought it best to indulge the Senator.

“It is very good work,” he said, keeping his tone neutral.

“Sure is!” Shockwave beckoned Megatron forward with a hand. “Come on, you’re all that’s left for the ceremony to start.” 

Megatron followed him to a set of gilded doors that were the entrance to the temple.

“Ready?” 

Megatron took a moment to consider the question. No, he wasn’t ready in the least.

“Yes,” he said

Shockwave pushed the doors open to reveal a massive chamber. Seemingly endless rows of pews stretched across the room, and filling them were hundreds of mechs, now all staring at him. There was even a mech working a camera, broadcasting it live to the rest of Cybertron.

An excellent play to appease some of the discontent on their planet. 

Shockwave hurried off to take his seat, leaving Megatron to face the countless optics fixed on him. Taking a deep vent to calm his systems, Megatron started to walk down the aisle to the raised platform at the front. 

There, he could see Minimus’s large form, decorated in equally elaborate gold paint. Next to him stood the priest who barely came up to Minimus’s hip joints. 

Ignoring the unnerving stares, Megatron made his way up to the pedestal and stepped up to stand next to Minimus. They faced one another and the priest began to speak. 

“We have come here today to unite these two sparks under the ever-present gaze of Primus. Primus the wise, the fair, the holy, has seen fit to shape these two mechanisms for one another. Shaped their sparks to be two parts of a whole while they function and when they return together into Primus’s loving embrace. Our noble Prime, recipient and speaker of Primus’s will has seen this and seen fit to guide these two into their Primus gifted roles as Conjunx Endura. We-”

The speech went on and on, and Megatron began to tune it out. In the past he’d attended a couple of low class bonding ceremonies and had always thought them beautiful. Impactor teased him, calling him a hopeless romantic. 

A ghost of a smile played over Megatron’s lips as the memory returned to him.

There had been dancing and drinking and laughter and warmth. A truly joyous event. And maybe Impactor was correct, but Megatron had always seen the happiness and intimacy in those events as priceless. Two mechanisms loving each other enough to tie their lives together and spend precious savings to celebrate that. He’d often pondered if he’d ever find someone that would make him want that.

This affair seemed a mockery of those sweet, innocent hopes and ideals. This ceremony was stuffy and formal with a distinct lack of happiness or privacy- a circus meant to appease outsiders instead of a celebration of love.

Megatron looked at Minimus. He was staring intently at the priest like he was examining every word.

After what felt like a century, the priest finished his speech. “Now,” he said. “For the binding and the vows.”

The priest reached out a hand to the altar and picked up a long cord of golden wire rope. “Please, join hands,” he instructed. 

Megatron reached out his right hand and Minimus his left. They brought their hands together, interlacing their digits. 

The priest took the cord and wrapped it around their clasped hands several times. He made one looser loop around their wrist joints then tied off the rope in a complicated interwoven knot.

“You are now tied in body and soon spark,” The priest proclaimed. He turned his optics on Minimus. “Please say your vow.”

“Today,” Minimus spoke, his voice reverberating through the temple. “I give myself to you Megatron of Tarn. I cannot say I’ve had much experience in the area of love. However, duty is something I am familiar with and hold dear to my spark. I promise to uphold my new duties to you as your Conjunx Endura even in the hardest and most troubling of times.”

The priest looked to Megatron with a clear voice, Megatron gave his vows. “Our situation may not be ideal, but I will give you, Minimus Ambus, what I believe we need to live together. How I see the world and why. I will give you my true self: unaltered and truthful. I will tell you what needs to be said without fear in hopes that you do your duty and try to understand. I promise you this until our sparks fade from this world.”

Megatron could hear soft irritated engine rumbles from the mechs up front. His vow wasn’t the surrender they expected, and Megatron was sure that was shocking to many. However, it wasn’t threatening, overtly political or belligerent. It fit perfectly into the vow guidelines while still being a statement, and for that, Megatron was proud.

The Priest held his arms out in prayer. “Minimus Ambus of Ambustus Minor and Megatron Ambus of Tarn, you are now joined in the sanctity of a Conjunx Endura Bond. And henceforth, Megatron Ambus, you are restored to your Primus made role as a Point One Percenter and are now of the Intellectual Class. I ask now for you to start this union with an expression of love.”

Minimus stepped closer awkwardly. He put his untied hand on Megatron’s waist almost hesitantly, but Megatron went without protest. He put his free hand on Minimus’s shoulder and pulled him into a kiss. 

It was chaste and gentle, ending as quickly as it began. They pulled apart with a soft noise and the audience rose from their seats, filling the air with applause. 

* * *

The reception was held in one of the great halls of the Grand Imperium. For hours, Minimus spent the time, still tied to Megatron while both of them received countless congratulations from a host of mechs.

Minimus knew the hand tying was a staple of upper class bonding rituals but he’d never really considered how inconvenient it was. Even the simplest of maneuvers alerted the other. It was mildly invasive and somehow simultaneously enjoyable. Though Minimus suspected that had more to do with the pleasant heat radiating from Megatron’s palm.

Politicians, enforcers, officials and some of Minimus’s house members approached them. All the interactions kind of blended together. The individual would come up, congratulate them, hint towards the bonding present they’d bought the couple, and then make small talk before retreating back into the crowd. 

The table with the bonding presents was stacked alarmingly high with gifts. Minimus was actually worried the pile might be violating several safety regulations. 

Megatron looked to be as tired as Minimus was with the reception and was starting to become monosyllabic with his answers. Minimus was trying to figure out how much longer they had to stay before they could politely take leave. 

“Are you alright?” Minimus asked him.

Megatron’s optics darted over to him then returned to the energon he’d been nursing since the start of the event.

“I suppose. It’s just...” 

“Just?”

“In a lower class reception this would be about the point mechs started to make toasts.”

“Toasts? What kin-”

The unmistakable sound of an energon glass clinking brought their conversation to a halt. And there, in the middle of the crowd, climbing up onto a table was Impactor. Once stable on top of the table and sure he had everyone’s attention, Impactor spoke.

“I’m not the greatest with words,” he admitted with a laugh. “But if I didn’t say anything at my best friend’s bonding ceremony, I’d be the worst kinda scum. So, I just wanna give a toast.” Impactor raised his glass. “To my best pal Megatron and his new Conjunx. Hope you guys find whatever happiness ya can.”

The crowd participated in the toast, but Minimus could hear the mocking chuckles and murmurs of “A low class tradition? How quaint.”

Minimus looked over at Megatron, knowing he could also hear the ridicule. But what he saw was surprising. A wide grin split Megatron’s faceplates. A genuine smile showing an intake full of denta.

Impactor jumped down from the table and waded through the crowd towards them. He met Megatron in a heartfelt hug. Minimus was dragged closer awkwardly by the hand, but he patiently waited for the greeting to end.

“Long time no see, ey Megs?”

Megatron’s smile somehow grew wider. “It really has.”

They started to talk and feeling the need to give them some privacy, Minimus turned away as much as he could. 

After a while catching up with Megatron, Impactor turned his attention to Minimus. 

“I liked the vows,” he said, grinning lazily. “Gives me a little assurance you’ll treat my friend right.”

Megatron looked between the two of them, confused. 

“I’m glad to be of service,” said Minimus dryly.

Impactor laughed then rooted around in his subspace for something. He pulled out a shabbily wrapped package and handed it to Megatron.

“I know it’s not much, but it’s a little bonding present from me.”

Megatron pulled him into another hug. “You being here is enough.”

Impactor snorted and patted Megatron on the back. “Don’t get soppy on me, Megs.” 

The hug ended and Impactor gave him another firm back pat. “I’ve got to head on, Megs. I’ll see you around. Don’t be a stranger alright?”

“Of course.” With that final exchange, Impactor began maneuvering his way through the crowd towards the exit. 

Minimus checked his chronometer. “I think we’ve been here the minimum amount of time for it to be socially acceptable for us to leave.” 

Megatron's shoulders fell in relief. “Finally.” 

They began to make their way through the crowd, following in Impactor’s wake. They were just at the exit when Senator Proteus approached them. 

“I don’t believe I gave you two my congratulations.”

Minimus nodded. “Thank you Senator.” 

“It is my pleasure.” Proteus looked over to Megatron and smiled. It was a slow creeping thing that crawled across Proteus faceplates and unnerved Minimus. 

“Megatron,” Proteus greeted. “Finally I get to meet you. I’ve read your writings and I must say, it’s a pity your alterations weren’t completed on Messatine.”

Minimus felt Megatron suddenly freeze up beside him and his hand clenched Minimus’s tightly.

“A friend of mine wanted me to remind you the Status Quo is the Status Quo for a reason.” 

Megatron’s ventilations sped up as he stared at Proteus in shock and fear. 

Proteus waved a hand in goodbye. “Have a wonderful night you two,” he said before blending back into the crowd. 

“Megatron?” Minimus asked, concerned.

“I’m fine,” Megatron grit out, ventilations still cycling with panic. “Let’s just go back to the estate.” 

Not wanting to make the situation worse, Minimus called a transport and soon, they were inside the entryway of the mansion. He led them up the stairs and into the berthroom.

“I’m going to take off the cord,” Minimus warned before bringing their hands up. He began to pick at the knot, gradually loosening it until it came completely undone. He placed it on the desk, and turned to face his new Conjunx who was still venting fast and hard.

He reached out a hand, intending to lightly touch Megatron’s shoulder, but the other mech slapped his hands away. “Don’t touch me,” he snarled.

Minimus held out his hands: placating. “How about we just sit on the berth and calm dow-”

“I am not going to interface with you,” Megatron growled. 

Minimus reset his optics, surprised. Before he could respond, Megatron resumed his accusations.

“Nickel told me I’d have to interface with you on our bonding night. I don’t care if we’re required to consummate this. If you want to, you're going to have to hold me down and force me.”

“I’m not going to force you to interface with me,” Minimus cried in horror. “I’d never do that to any mech!”

Megatron relaxed slightly, but looked unconvinced.

“Just, wait a second, let me show you something.” 

Minimus stood back and set off the internal control for the armor to open. The Magnus armor released him with a whirr of components and out stepped the truer form of Minimus Ambus.

Megatron’s optics blew wide and he stared with naked surprise. “I- what?”

“It’s called the Magnus armor,” Minimus explained. “Tyrest made it when he created the position. The Ultra Magnus wears the armor as a sort of badge- an honor and privilege of the role.”

“Any mech that becomes the Ultra Magnus wears it?” he asked in disbelief.

“Kind of.” Minimus gestured to himself. “The only mechs that can operate it are Load-Bearers, which are a variety of Point One Percenters. Tyrest chooses the next Ultra Magnus and all previous mechs in that position and all that will come to be are Load-Bearers. This of course includes me.”

Megatron’s ventilations had slowed down completely now. “Why are you showing me this?” he demanded. “You’ve made yourself more vulnerable.”

“Certainly,” Minimus agreed. “That would be the point. For you, our entire arrangement was a vulnerability. I’m simply evening out the playing field, so to speak.”

Megatron’s body language grew calm, matching his ventilations. “Is this your roundabout way of proving you won’t force me to interface?” 

“Yes. It also would have been an unnecessary difficulty to hide this form from my Conjunx at all times. I would like to share the berth, but if that makes you too uncomfortable I can simply sleep in my office like I’ve been doing.”

“No,” Megatron said roughly. “We can share.” 

“Thank you,” Minimus said earnestly. “I hope my small stature doesn’t bother you.”

Minimus had meant to keep any tones of insecurity out of that statement, but his worries sounded painfully obvious. 

“It doesn’t,” Megatron said. “If anything, it makes your accomplishments in the enforcers more impressive and makes your relation to Dominus make much more sense.” 

A little rush of pride washed over Minimus. Now, at a comfortable standstill, Minimus walked over to the berth and pulled himself up. He settled himself on the far side. Megatron sat down, but with Impactor’s gift in hand.

Minimus watched in thinly veiled interest as Megatron tore away the packaging to reveal a freshly bought datapad. It was an older model, but still streamlined with a lot of data storage. Buying that would take a good chunk of a miner’s salary. 

As Megatron stared at it in open wonder and gratitude Minimus dimmed his optics. He fell into recharge with Megatron beside him thinking that the future looked bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, it's official! If you enjoyed, please, leave a comment! Thanks!


	6. Part 1 Chapter 6

Megatron was floating. In the pitch dark he laid suspended, his frame weightless. He tried to move, to figure out where he was, but he couldn’t. His limbs wouldn’t respond. He attempted movement again and again, hope fading more each time. 

The dark began to expand. It slowly pulsed, advancing and somehow morphing Megatron’s surroundings into a deeper black. It creeped towards him, swallowing his pedes, crawling up his frame, seeping into his vents. Megatron’s systems started to overheat. His vents hiccupped and spluttered, trying to free themselves of the substance. 

The darkness rose up to his neck cabling and it was then that Megatron’s olfactory sensor began to pick up data. The darkness smelled like Outpost C-12 after the slaughter. 

The smell of burnt metal and fresh energon filled the space. As the darkness engulfed his faceplates, cutting off Megatron’s vision he desperately tried to throw his helm forwards. 

And suddenly he was back in the outpost, crouched over the body of the guard he killed. The faceplates were as hideously mutilated as he remembered- bent inward from the force of his blow. 

The guard’s energon coated Megatron’s frame. The purple substance moved along his plating like the darkness, wriggling and squirming. He tried to wipe it off on the ground but it wouldn’t leave his servos. It melded into his frame like paint and wouldn’t come off. Wouldn’t wipe away.

He couldn’t get it off.

Megatron woke up violently. He shot up, servos slamming hard on the berth. His vents blasted streams of hot air, trying to cool his systems.

“Just a night purge,” Megatron breathed, trying to center himself.

He looked around the room. The windows were letting in the gentle orange light of morning. It filled the room, making the walls glow softly. 

Megatron looked down and noticed that he was alone in the berth. In Minimus’s place was a datanote. Megatron picked up the delicate thing and read the message. 

_I’ve headed off for work. While I’m gone, please feel free to use the estate as you would any other home. I’ll be back this evening. My comm frequency is below. Call if you need me._

Megatron left the berth. He walked over to the desk and deposited the note there. Gingerly stretching out a twisted back cable, Megatron looked at the doors intently. During the time leading up to the ceremony, Megatron mainly kept himself confined to the berthroom. The confusion and worry had been nearly nauseating. He’d taken the time to process his thoughts and feelings and simply make sense of the situation.

Now, with a burgeoning trust of his new Conjunx, there was a sense of security. And that lent its way to curiosity. 

He pushed open the berthroom doors and journeyed out into the hallway. Megatron started down the corridor and walked. He walked and walked and kept walking. All the while he passed identical doors and absurdly similar branching hallways. He pushed a couple doors open, but they were either empty or sparsely decorated with no discernable use. 

On one notable occasion, Megatron was met with a room with a singular chair placed dead center in the room. No other furniture or items. Megatron closed the room with exasperation.

“Why even add the chair?” he murmured to himself incredulously. 

Deciding to cut his losses before becoming lost in the maze of passages, Megatron turned and traveled back the way he'd come. When he’d reached his berthroom door, Megatron took the opposite direction, eventually coming to the staircase. Once down, he took a right and entered a dining room. 

An enormously long table ran down the length of the room and on either side sat scores of comfortable looking chairs. Across from the table was a simple automatic door. Traveling through it was the sound of several voices.

_It is a big residence_ Megatron thought. _It would make sense for more mechs to live here._

Megatron crossed the room and went through the door. He was met with three mechs chatting in what was clearly a kitchen, one of which was Nickel. On her right was a lanky purple bot. On her left, a white and light red minibot a full helm shorter than Nickel. All three of them turned to look at the newcomer.

The tiny minibot perked up immediately, a wide smile gracing his faceplates. “Oh, you’re up! Did you come in for a meal?

“Actually, I was just exploring. I heard your voices and curiosity got the better of me.” 

“Of course sir,” the minibot exclaimed. “You are perfectly within your right.”

Nickel rolled her optics and shared a meaningful look with the purple bot. 

Megatron shook his head at the minibot. “Please, you don’t need to call me sir,” he said. “Just Megatron will do.” 

“Yes, sir, absolutely sir!” the minibot said brightly. 

Megatron decided to drop it. “What are your names?” he asked instead.

“Arc,” said the minibot.

“Roll,” the purple mech said.

Nickel crossed her arms. “We’ve met.” 

Roll elbowed her. 

“It’s very nice to meet you, Arc and Roll,” Megatron said pleasantly. “And it’s good to see you again, Nickel.”

Roll elbowed Nickel again, harder this time. Heaving an audible sigh, Nickel met Megatron’s optics. “I’m sorry about the line of questioning I put you through when you first got here. I should have waited till you were a little more adjusted or at least explained myself a little better.” 

“It’s fine.” Megatron kept optic contact. “I won’t pretend like the experience wasn’t distressing, but that is the general procedure for Noble Conjunxes to be, correct?”

Nickel nodded.

“Then you were being completely honest with me about what normal expectations are. I don’t fault you for that.” 

Nickel looked taken aback and Arc and Roll appeared more than pleased with the situation. Nickel fixed her gaze on the floor and muttered, “Shove that up your exhaust pipe, Rewind.” 

Roll grinned. “Sure you don’t want to fuel? Later today we have to order in some fancier energon for the Ambus dinner, so now’s a perfect time.” 

“Ambus dinner?” 

“Yes, sir,” Arc joined in. “A few members will be coming over for dinner in a week’s time. It was planned for a couple months from now, but Fortis Ambus pushed it up. I imagine he wants the opportunity to properly meet you.” 

“Who is Fortis Ambus?” Megatron asked.

“That would be the head of the House of Ambus.” Nickel said. “There are twenty-one members of the Ambus House not accounting for Conjunxes. He is the first.” 

Megatron cocked his helm in thought. “I’m guessing he’s the most influential then.”

“Very much so,” Nickel confirmed. “Do you know how Houses are formed?”

“No I don’t.”

“Well, as you’re part of one now, you should probably know.” Nickel leaned back against an energon dispenser. “Smaller hot spots, fractions of the size of the more well known ones are always igniting and cooling just as fast. These hot spots usually churn out Cybertronians that look similar. The Newsparks from them deep code and form their frames on their own, but there are typically notable similarities. Take for example…” Nickel trailed off.

“The Maximus House?” Roll suggested.

“Yes, the Maximus House.” Nickel launched back into her explanation. “They all have this elaborate helm design. It fans out and kind of looks like wings. Anyway, no one really knows why this happens. And it isn’t important on its own, but it becomes important when someone from these kinds of hotspots ascends in status. If they have enough resources they can apply for a House title and purchase their hotspot. That mechanism is then the head of the House. The position’s successor is decided by the current Head of House. The Head of House manages the House’s financial situation, arranges Bondings, settles House disputes, mentors House sparklings, and approves Blacksmith interferences.” 

“What is Blacksmith interference?” Megatron asked. 

Nickel’s field ignited with excitement. It was such a sudden change that Megatron almost took a step back in surprise. 

“There’s always an exception to the rule,” Nickel explained. “Occasionally, when a spark from a House hot spot is deep coding, it’s noticed that their development doesn’t resemble other members. The House head then calls in a Blacksmith to alter the Newspark’s form.”

Nickel spoke passionately and knowledgeably about the subject and Megatron could tell this was an important interest of hers.

“The Blacksmith can’t change the Newspark’s size or alt-mode, but they can mold certain kibble and sometimes limb and wing shape. It’s a very complicated and somewhat controversial process though. Some say a Newspark’s development shouldn’t be tampered with, but ultimately, it still occurs.”

“You are very well informed about this,” Megatron said curiously. 

Nickel sniffed. “Of course I am! I was a medic after all.” 

“A medic?” Megatron frowned. “But you’re Janito-”

“Yes I’m Janitorial class now,” Nickel snapped irritably. 

And wasn’t that interesting. Megatron knew there was a story behind that but judging from Nickel’s sour EM field, she wasn’t willing to share.

“Anyway,” she continued bitterly. “Remember when I told you this is one of the Ambus Estates? There are many across Cybertron that belong to various House members. The members that live here in Iacon are the ones who will be attending dinner.” 

She lapsed off into silence and Megatron began to get the distinct impression that he had overstayed his welcome. 

“I’m going to head back to my room,” Megatron said. “Thank you all for your kindness and patience with my lack of knowledge.”

Megatron headed out of the kitchen and back upstairs. He grabbed Impactor’s gift and lay down onto the berth. He powered on the datapad, admiring its smooth surface and started to write.

_We all come from somewhere_

_Born from this ground into our birthplace_

He’d been born below and kept there by the decision of the elite. They controlled everything, including his ascension from that darkness. But maybe this was a blessing in disguise.

 _I can use this_ Megatron thought. _I’ve never had the opportunity to write without worry for my well-being._

The thought of his encounter with Proteus flashed through Megatron’s processor. 

_This may still put me in danger, but it’s still the safest position I’ve ever been in. I need to take the chance._

Megatron wrote and wrote and wrote. The words flowed easily, coming together into sentences full of blunt honesty. He’d find a way to publish later. All that mattered at the moment for Megatron was solidifying his words in the datapad.

Before he knew it Cybertron’s sun had set. The glow from the datapad lit up the room as the natural light disappeared. He was still working diligently when Minimus came back.

Minimus shut the door quietly behind him. At the sound of footsteps Megatron looked up. He took in the fact that Minimus was once again in armor, then greeted his Conjunx with a nod of the helm and returned to his datapad. 

Minimus walked up to the berth. Carefully, he deposited a cube of energon on the berth beside Megatron. “Roll tells me you haven’t fueled at all today.” 

Megatron set the data on his abdominal plating and picked up the cube. “I suppose I got so wrapped up in writing I forgot.” Megatron downed the cube and handed it to Minimus’s outstretched servos. “Thank you, Minimus.”

“No need to thank me.” Minimus subspaced the cube. “You said you’ve been writing?”

“It’s all I’ve been doing.”

“May I ask what? 

Megatron absentmindedly toyed with the corner of the datapad. “Various things. Poems and essays mostly. At the moment I’m doing a processor dump of sorts. I’ll sort back through it later and edit what I like.”

Minimus made a funny little expression. From what Megatron could tell it was a twitch of the lips that would have grown bigger if not for Minimus wrestling it down into a sort of half smile. It was rather endearing. 

“If you feel comfortable, I’d love to read some,” Minimus said.

“When I get something decent out, you’ll be the first to know.” 

* * *

Drift’s processor was spinning. Lights were dancing behind his optics and everything felt so, so good. Charge ran across his plating, causing a pleasant tingling station. 

He couldn’t move, courtesy of the circuit boosters jacked into his sensory systems. 

He sat, slumped against an alley wall behind a pile of scrap. Out of the corner of his optic, Drift could make the blurry figure of the leaker he shared the boosters with on the other side of the scrap heap. 

“There’s always easy pickings in the Dead End.”

It took Drift a second to register the voice and even longer to recognize the two blurry shapes coming into his vision as mechs. They got close to the leaker and one bent down next to the collapsed mech.

“He’s out cold. Circuit boosters I think.”

“Like I said, easy pickings.”

Drift’s processor struggled to understand what was happening. It felt like everything around him was taking place in slow motion.”

“He’s a little on the bigger side dontcha think? Doesn’t he like them small?”

“If he doesn’t want him then we can sell the leaker to the market, buy yeah, he’s a fan of smaller ones. Says they’re easier to grab and move around.”

The kneeling figures made a sound of deep revulsion. He turned his helm to regard his companion. “He frags them?” He asked, disgust staining his voice.

“Mech, you’ve done this for how long and you don’t know what he does with them?” 

The kneeling figure stood and shrugged. “Never saw a reason to ask. Leakers I can kinda get, but the majority are Disposables.” The figure shuddered. “Pretty perverted to frag those. Are they even sentient?”

“Course they’re sentient. Don’t you ever look at their face right before the end?”

“You know I don’t.”

“Well, I do. There’s so much fear and hurt and despair in their optics. It’s so raw, so unfiltered and just like any other Cybertronian. Drones couldn’t even come close to making those expressions. But to answer your question, no. He doesn’t frag the one used for his vids.”

“Still sick.”

“Yeah, but he pays well.”

“That he does.”

One of the figures scooped the leaker off the ground and the two left, leaving Drift alone and hidden behind the scrap pile in the dark of the alley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys are enjoying! If you liked, please consider leaving comment below. All comments are loved and appreciated!


	7. Part 1 Chapter 7

Alpha Trion paced through the Hall of Records while deep in thought. Nominus’s connection to the Matrix was failing. He could hear the Matrix calling out to be let go, for a new Prime to take over. And if Alpha Trion had to guess, he’d say it wasn’t communicating with Nominus anymore. 

Alpha Trion sighed. The corruption had been allowed to run rampant under Nominus’s rule. The Prime filled his government with like-minded individuals and turned a blind eye to their behavior. A new prime was desperately needed. But who would fill the role and when?

The Covenant of Primus hadn’t proven very useful in figuring that out. Alpha Trion narrowed down the texts, arriving on one that he was sure prophesied about who would become the sixteenth Prime. It was murky and confusing. The text clearly focused upon the Prime who would lift Cybertron from its gilded darkness, but it also mentioned three other mechs. 

The Covenant named them as The Persecutor, The Conditional and The Catalyst. There was no question that these three mechs would be instrumental in the rise of the Prime in question. Alpha Trion wasn’t sure how, or what their titles meant. The Persecutor and Catalyst sounded especially threatening. 

As the owner of the Covenant, Alpha Trion was attuned to Mechs woven into its pages. In his optics, they stood out among other Cybertronians like glaring lights. 

He would do what he’d always done and wait for one such mech to appear and then do his best to guide them. 

* * *

The next few days were monotonously predictable. Megatron would wake up alone, use the wash racks, and then write. When he tired of that, he went downstairs to fuel and to find someone to converse with. 

He quickly learned that Roll, Arc and Dominus were not his best options. The two servants appeared to view Megatron as one of their masters. They were friendly and helpful, but their deference wasn’t conducive to engaging conversation. 

Dominus simply wasn’t around enough to warrant conversation, which was a shame. Megatron would have loved to hear more about Dominus’s work from the mech himself. 

According to Rewind, Dominus: scientist and avid petitioner of Disposable class rights, was working on preparing a case to present in front of the Senate. Judging from Rewind’s fond recounting of the many hours Dominus spent holed away with his work, Megatron pinned Dominus as a workaholic. 

Megatron thought that it should have put strain on their relationship, but it seemed the opposite. Rewind spoke passionately about his Conjunx and his work. In fact, Rewind was very knowledgeable when it came to matters involving the lower class. 

It made sense, considering Rewind was at the very bottom of society. He provided information about laws in place to limit lower class freedoms that Megatron hadn’t known existed. He was intelligent, held a plethora of facts inside his processor and was the opposite of the mindless, unfeeling stereotype of Disposables. 

One of the most memorable things Rewind told Megatron was “The crude energon they force us Disposables to use doesn’t fuel the systems right. You can fill your tanks up with the stuff, but it still feels like you’re starving. It hurts; you’re always tired and they can do that to us because we’re less. Make a group lesser than the main population and you don’t have to justify anything you do to them.” 

Nickel was pleasant to talk to for a set of different reasons. She was prickly and brazen; always willing to offer a different perspective or counterargument. Megatron could talk out ideas with her.

“You’re not at all clear about what methods you’re advocating for.”

Megatron frowned at Nickel. “What do you mean?” 

“Here you say if the caste system was for the benefit of the people, there would be representation of all classes in the government, but due to the inherent corruption that comes with such a system, this will never occur. Then you say the lower classes need to take their rights from the high classes and dismantle the caste system. But how that should be done is completely up to interpretation. Protest? Legal action? Violence? What’s your avenue?” 

_What was his avenue?_ It was unclear even to Megatron. He now knew pacifism was impossible. The upper class and government would never willingly give up their power. They would destroy anyone in their path before it came to that. But what options did that leave?

Uprising, rebellion, _violence_. 

“Do you think protests or legal action are viable options?” Megatron asked

Nickel’s look said exactly what she thought. 

Needing to talk his reasoning out, Megatron continued speaking his train of thought.

“I don’t believe they’re possible either, but violent action is-” Megatron swallowed, remembering the energon on his hands. “An undesirable outcome.” He shook his helm as if clearing away the memory. “No, pacifism is not possible to create change from the bottom up. But maybe from the top down…”

Megatron trailed off. Nickel optics remained trained on him, probing. “Sounds like you need to think about this some more,” she said.

That was how Megatron ended up in the living room, perched on the couch and trying to sort out his ideas while a trashy holovid played in the background. It was some kind of romantic drama with a flashy speedster playing the lead. 

He was still there when Minimus arrived home. Probably hearing the holovid, Minimus peeked into the room. Seeing Megatron, he entered.

Minimus gestured to the spot next to Megatron. “May I?”

“Go ahead.” 

Minimus sat next to him. They watched the holovid together for a few moments. 

“No, you don’t understand!” The lead cried out to the romantic interest- a slim angular jet. “Remember that night we spent together?”

“It was one night and a mistake,” the jet said solemnly. “I have a conjunx, Cloudstrut.”

He tried to walk away, but Cloudstrut grabbed his arm. “I’m carrying!” he blurted.

The jet looked shocked. “A newspark?” he croaked. Cloustrut nodded vehemently. 

They stared at one another a long minute before the jet wrenched his arm away. He turned away, refusing to look at him. “There’s no proof it’s mine.”

Minimus leaned over towards Megatron. “Ah, what exactly is this?”

Megatron shrugged. “I turned on the holocaster and this was on. I believe it’s called The Tempter.”

Minimus snorted. “From this scene, it seems accurate.” 

Megatron chuckled softly and the two fell into silence again. Megatron glanced at Minimus out of the corner of his optic. He looked like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to start. He returned to watching the holovid, waiting for Minimus to begin.

It took Minimus the entire scene of Cloudstrut sobbing with flashbacks to that night of forbidden passion for Minimus to gather his words and speak. 

“I apologize for being absent these past few days.”

“Don’t be.” Megatron turned his helm to face Minimus. “You have an important job. I don’t expect you to neglect that for me.”

“I do,” Minimus agreed. “But that doesn’t excuse me from trying my best to help you settle in. I imagine you’re quite bored here with nothing to do.” 

“It’s nice to have time to write, but yes, there isn’t much to do.” 

Minimus nodded. “That’s what I want to discuss with you. Now that you’re Intellectual class there are a number of options for a new profession. Have you ever wanted to be anything other than a miner?” 

“For a long time I wanted to be a medic,” Megatron said slowly. “Injuries occurred frequently in the mines and I wanted to help ease the pain of others.”

“Then you can do that,” Minimus said triumphantly. “I can fill out the forms and you can attend medical school. This is perfect, a new term is beginning soon-”

“That’s impossible,” Megatron cut in. 

Minimus frowned. “As Intellectual class you have the legal right to-”

“What medical school would accept me? And who would hire a former miner to treat patients? Don’t patronize me, Minimus. You’re a smart mech. You know that’s not a path I can take.” 

Megatron watched Minimus try to come up with an argument then sink in defeat. “You’re right,” he admitted. “What if instead you accompany me to work tomorrow? There are many mechs who work for enforcement and are not enforcers. You could scout out potential lines of work.”

Megatron mulled the offer over for a moment. “I’d like that,” he decided. 

They watched The Tempter until the end of the episode. A promo for the next one followed. Instead of waiting to see what would come on next, Megatron turned it off, turned on his datapad, and handed it to Minimus.

“I said I’d let you see a finished piece.”

Minimus took the device gently and read the text on the screen.

A Cornucopia of life and light

is the body they do hide down below

The strangest inner workings

powered by that unknown

Gorgeous and inconceivable

Is that spark

that life

Rise and break the wall above, hidden

Rise and pick yourself off the ground, fallen

The dirt is not your place

That beauty was meant to stand

A life meant to be seen

Minimus brought the datapad down from his face and gave Megatron a small smile. “This is beautiful,” he said softly. “It reminds me of the Iaconian lights.” 

“Thank you, but what are the Iaconian lights?”

“You’ve never seen them?”

Megatron shook his helm. “Working in the mines didn’t allow much time to attend celebrations and events.” 

Minimus sighed unhappily. “A shame. The Iaconian lights are a yearly display put on to celebrate Cybertronian life. They represent the Sparks of the people and are accompanied by outdoor festivities.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“Indeed. It has yet to come this year. I’ll have to take you.” 

They spent the rest of the evening simply talking, legs naturally beginning to brush together as they grew more comfortable sitting next to each other on the couch. 

* * *

The next morning, Megatron woke to a gentle hand nudging his shoulder. He came online slowly.

“It’s time to go,” Minimus said, watching with amusement as Megatron struggled to clear his recharge foggy processor.

Deciding to forego a morning wash, Megatron groggily followed Minimus to the Transport. He dozed off on the trip, but Minimus shook him back awake when they’d arrived. 

The Head Enforcement building looked like every other enforcement station, only bigger with more mechs coming in and out. 

As they entered, other mechs gave Minimus a respectfully wide berth, looking at him in high regard. 

Minimus was presumably leading them to his office when someone shouted out, “Who ya got there, Mins?”

A white mech with blue chest plating and a black face mask swaggered up to them. He only came up to Megatron’s waist, but carried himself with the confidence of a much larger mech. 

“Director,” Minimus greeted.

The mech rolled his yellow optics. “No need to be so formal, Mins.” Unable to reach Minimus’s shoulders he casually slung an arm around Minimus’s waist. He then looked up a Megatron. The area under his optics crinkled in what Megatron thought was a smile under the mask. “So this is your new conjunx?” 

The mech stuck out a hand to Megatron. “The name’s Ramp. Mins and I go way back.”

“Please don’t call me that,” Minimus said. 

Megatron shook the offered limb. “Megatron. It is nice to meet you.” 

“Ohhh~” Ramp cooed, casting a mischievous look at Megatron. “You’re very big.”

He leveled that same look at Minimus. Apparently it meant something significant, as Minimus grimaced. He carefully removed Ramp’s digits from his frame. “I would prefer to have this exchange in private,” he said. 

Ramp took it in stride. “I can’t see why, but we can go to your office,” he said innocently.

Minimus stared him down in disbelief. “I need to talk to you anyway,” Ramp continued. Sighing, Minimus walked off with Megatron and Ramp both on his tail. 

Minimus’s office was much like his home: large, organized, and sparsely decorated. The only personal items were three pictures on his desk. The first was of Minimus and Dominus. The second was of Dominus and Rewind. The third was a group shot of about twenty mechs in front of a very official looking building. 

Once the door was closed, Ramp darted over and picked up the third photo. He brought it back with the enthusiasm of a turbofox playing fetch. 

He held it up for Megatron and pointed to the far left of it. “Here’s me and Minimus back in the enforcement academy.” he explained gleefully.

And sure enough, at the edge of the group was a serious looking, out of armor Minimus and Ramp, whose lack of a mouth made it difficult to tell, but Megatron was sure he was the only one smiling in the shot. 

“Minimus was top of our class,” Ramp boasted. It was strangely as if he was bragging about himself. 

“Ramp,” Minimus called in exasperation. “What are you doing? I thought you had something to tell me.”

Ramp laughed. “Mins, as your best friend, It’s my duty to act as your wingman.”

“Megatron and I are bonded. I’ve no need for a wingman.” 

Ramp cupped a hand over his mask and leaned over to fake whisper to Megatron. “He’s a good mech, even with the rod up his aft,” he said conspiratorially.

Megatron snorted in laughter. 

“Anyway Mins, I needed to tell you the Law department is having some difficulty with a private detective. He has the proper credentials, but our prosecution has taken on the case and the detective’s not standing down. Rapido’s not sure what to do at this point.”

Minimus pinched his nasal bridge. “Is it the same detective as last time?”

“Nightbeat, yes.”

“Alright,” Minimus said. “I’ll head down there right now. Are you ok with that Megatron?”

Megatron, still amused, nodded. “I’m here to see all the professions aren’t I?”

They left the office to Ramp calling out “We’ve all got to get some afternoon fuel together sometime. I’ll comm you.”

Minimus grunted an affirmative and Megatron snorted again. “He seems like a lot to handle on a daily basis,” Megatron offered.

“An understatement,” Minimus said, but Megatron could detect a note of affection. “As my friend and predecessor, I’m required to put up with it.” 

Megatron reset his optics in surprise. “Predecessor? He was the Ultra Magnus? I thought you two graduated together.”

“We did,” Minimus confirmed. “It’s a long story.” Bitterness tinged the statement and Megatron decided to leave it at that. 

The Attorney Office was on the second floor of the station. It consisted of many different doors with the various names of lawyers labeled on them. The door they entered was labeled _Chief Enforcement Attorney Rapido_

The mech inside was a red and white race car. He spun in his chair, recognized Minimus, and rose to his feet to show respect. “Ultra Magnus, Sir” he greeted. 

“Rapido. Ramp tells me you're having troubles again.”

Rapido grabbed a datapad and came over to stand next to Minimus, pulling something up on the datapad for him.

“Yes, Sir. The suspect hired detective Nightbeat who is working in conjunction with the suspect’s lawyer.”

Megatron listened to the situation. From what he could gather, Nightbeat had the authorization to enter and investigate the store turned crime scene, but his actions were making it difficult for the enforcers to collect the evidence the DA needed for the prosecution. Apparently there was some strange legal technicality that didn’t allow Nightbeat to be ousted from the crime scene. 

While Minimus and Rapido were spitballing ideas, Megatron thought of something. 

“Why don’t you invoke the Private Property Infringement?” he asked.

Both Mechs turned to look at him. Rapido looked down at the datapad then up again. Megatron could practically see his processor circuits start to fire. 

“That...would work,” Rapido began slowly, his optics brightening in realization. “If we get the shopkeeper to do that, all citizens unaffiliated with the government on that property would, by law, be considered trespassing. Then our enforcers would have the authority to remove him!”

“You,” Rapido exclaimed, pointing at Megatron, “are a genius! What legal department are you with?”

“He’s not a lawyer,” Minimus replied in awe. “How did you know that?”

Megatron shrugged. “I’ve done a little research into some of the laws surrounding the mines. The Private Property Infringement law is how they keep activists and journalists from seeing what goes on down there.” 

Rapido looked at Megatron delightedly. “What is your name?”

“Megatron.”

Rapido slapped a hand to his helm. “Of course, you’re Ultra Magnus’s conjunx. I caught the tail end of your bonding on the holocaster.” He grinned widely. “Well, Megatron Ambus, what would you think about having an internship here? Not official of course as you don’t have a law degree, but I think I could get some useful ideas from your processor.”

Minimus, breaking out of his haze of admiration, tilted his helm thoughtfully. “Would law school be something you're interested in?” he asked.

Megatron considered briefly before shaking his head. “No, but is a general education possible?”

“The Institute for Higher Programming is an option,” Minimus offered. “We can get you enrolled.”

Rapido hastily cut in. “Even with you being a student, I’d be glad to offer you the internship.”

Megatron felt his spark jump in excitement. “I would be honored,” he said. 

He spent the rest of the day following Minimus around to various departments. But even then, he still felt confident in his choosing of Rapido’s proposition. 

Once back home and in their berthroom, Minimus pulled up the enrollment forms and they began to fill them out together. They were about three fourths of the way finished when they came across a page asking for the student’s function. Minimus put “miner” down and Megatron looked at him, confused.

“I don’t work in the mines anymore.”

“Yes,” Minimus said, “but legally, that’s still your function until you file for a change and have it approved. You’ll have to do that after you graduate to get a job.” 

Megatron scoffed. “It seems like a needless difficult hurdle for a mech to get a job in a different field.”

“Most likely,” Minimus agreed. 

They finished up the forms and sent them in. Minimus bid Megatron good night and retired to their berth, leaving Megatron at the berthroom desk. He scrolled through the Datanet for a while and was about to go recharge when a message notification popped up.

Curious, he opened his messages and was met with a note. It said, _Hello, my name is Cassette. I know who you are and what you write. Your words have created a movement, and I’d like to be the one to show you._

Underneath that was a Datanet channel address. Intrigued, Megatron clicked on it. He was brought to a forum that was titled _The Decepticons._

He appeared to be in a private message box on the forum, indicating he had a personal account. A new message blinked into existence.

It was from Cassette, and read, _Welcome, Megatron._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, hoped you guys enjoyed the chapter! If you did, please leave a comment below!
> 
> Also I'm on Tumblr now. Come pop over and say hi! https://silver-setting-sun.tumblr.com/


	8. Part 1 Chapter 8

Minimus found himself quite pleased with how Megatron’s internship was panning out. The last two days went the same, and Minimus thought they could quite easily make a routine of it. 

They got up early, traveled to the enforcement headquarters and he dropped Megatron off at the Law department. Then Minimus returned to his office to take care of whatever work he needed to. 

At the end of the day, Megatron would meet him in the lobby and they traveled home together. The company was enjoyable and Megatron was visibly excited about the work Rapido was having him do. 

According to Megatron, Rapido had him sorting paperwork and learning about legal research. It was grunt work and for any other mech, would have been dreadfully dull. But Megatron spoke about his tasks with genuine interest and a gleam in his optics.

Minimus supposed that as a miner, one didn’t receive much mental stimulation. This work must have been something out of a dream for Megatron when compared to his previous occupation. 

The thought was somehow saddening, heartwarming and humbling all at once. 

Today, they were forced to change their burgeoning schedule. As the Ultra Magnus, Minimus was occasionally required to attend senate meetings. It only really occurred when the higher politicians wanted to make a point about something relating to crime.

Someone important, usually a Senator, would call him in and have him list off information before taking the stage and making a proposal based on those statistics. It was a smart tactic, and one that Minimus found irritating.

He had better things to do than be a glorified citation. It was frankly, an utter waste of time. 

But as it was still part of his job, Minimus dropped Megatron off at the station and went to meet Tyrest so they could arrive together. Tyrest worked in the Grand Imperium where the senate meetings took place.

When Minimus arrived, he knocked on Tyrest’s office door and waited.

“Come in,” was the muffled response from inside. 

The door slid open and Minimus was greeted with Tyrest sitting behind his desk, helm down and rested on laced digits. 

The door shut, leaving Minimus waiting expectantly. There was a stretch of silence before Minimus hesitantly reached out.

“Sir?”

“Why didn’t you come earlier, Minimus?” Tyrest asked, helm still down.

“Sir?”

“A senate meeting is no excuse for you to come to me late.”

Minimus kept his face blank despite his confusion. “There are thirty minutes until the Senate meeting begins. I mean no disrespect, sir, but that is the precise amount of time you requested I come early.”

Tyrest looked up sharply. “Are you accusing me of lying?”

“No, sir.”

Tyrest glared holes into Minimus’s frame. He then audibly scoffed. “I told you an hour at least. Don’t try to thrust your error on me.”

Minimus glanced down to see Tyrest’s digits tapping rapidly on the desk. It was a reliable tick that occurred when Tyrest was particularly stressed. 

_Ah_ Minimus thought bitterly. _That would explain his foul mood._

Still carefully keeping any expressions from his face, Minimus nodded. “I apologize,” he said. “I must have misheard you.” 

Seeming to accept the display of submission as proof that he was right, Tyrest wrenched his glare away from Minimus. “You and everyone these days,” he growled. His digits continued to tap at that fast unrelenting rhythm.

“All that prevents society from devolving into anarchy is the fear of Justice- the legitimacy of laws. And how are those laws supposed to be legitimate when they come from a source other than Primus’s messenger?”

Minimus listened to the raving, unsure where Tyrest was going with this.

“Things were so much easier during Nova Prime’s time. The Prime decreed something and his word and his alone was law. There were no Senators to create laws, and manipulate them for themselves and their associates. No complicated political hierarchy! All I had to do was talk to Nova about the problems I saw and he’d look to Primus for an answer and a law to put in place.”

Minimus kept his surprise hidden. He knew Nova Prime and Tyrest had been close, but hadn't thought it was to that level. It suddenly occurred to him how much power Tyrest must have lost after Nova’s disappearance.

Even as Chief Justice, he was still arguably beneath a Senator in terms of influence. A hate of the Senate came naturally to Tyrest. 

Tyrest smiled. It was a strained, ugly thing, borne of frustration. 

“That’s why I made Ultra Magnus,” he proclaimed. “We need someone to uphold true justice in the face of the current system. Someone to be the face of the law when strutless mechs like Nominus are shoved into the role of Prime.” 

As the smile was fully focused upon Minimus, it grew into something else. Others might have described it as cruel glee, but Minimus knew Tyrest. This was a show of pure pride.

“That’s the only reason you matter, Minimus. The face of Ultra Magnus rests on you. Of course it would have been better if Ramp kept the job. It's your fault he was injured and had to resign.”

Minimus stiffened.

“But you were the only other suitable option. Beggars can’t be choosers after all.” Tyrest chuckled at his own words. “Wouldn’t you agree, Minimus?”

“Of course, sir,” Minimus said tightly. 

Tyrest stood up to pat Minimus on the shoulder. The two went to the chamber in preparation for the meeting to begin. 

“Esteemed Senators, Justices, and honorable Prime,” Dai Atlas said, and Minimus settled in for the long haul. 

Before long, Minimus discovered who had requested his presence at the meeting. Dai Atlas announced that the Ultra Magnus would speak, and afterwards Proteus would be making a presentation. 

Proteus- one of the most influential members of government. Minimus hadn’t actually had that many interactions with Proteus, but what he said to Megatron on their bonding night raised red flags. 

Dai Atlas motioned Minimus forward. He came to the chamber’s middle, ready. The PowerPoint he brought flickered into view, and Minimus started.

He listed the crime rates and explained certain trends over the last month in various city-states and districts. Minimus was just finishing the overview of Polyhex and was moving into prevention plans, when Proteus cut in with a question.

“I sincerely apologize, Ultra Magnus, but can you repeat the recidivism rates of Kaon and Vos?”

“Yes, I can. In Kaon the recidivism rate is eighty-nine point three percent. In Vos it is eighty-five point eight percent.”

“And these are the two city-states with the highest crime rates?”

“Yes.” 

Proteus nodded and jotted something down. Before Minimus could continue, the Senator asked another question. 

“Can you divide those rates up into the offending groups by percentage makeup?”

“Can you please clarify what you’re asking me to do?” Minimus asked, a small frown growing on his faceplates.

“I’m asking the percentage of forged mecha versus Cold Constructed mecha that make up both the crime and recidivism rates of Kaon and Vos.”

Minimus was stunned into silence. The question seemed openly discriminatory in nature, and Minimus wanted to tell him he didn’t have the data. The problem was he did have it. The enforcement data collectors and analysts were meticulous, and Proteus, without a doubt, knew this. 

Proteus was clearly asking these questions to make a point, and as uneasy as it made Minimus, he couldn’t simply refuse Proteus in front of the entire Senate and Judicial branch. 

“Do you want me to include sparked mecha in that breakdown?” Minimus asked, trying to will the disapproval out of his voice. “They are a subset of forged mecha, but are technically, a different group.”

“Only if you feel the information is relevant,” Proteus said coolly. 

Minimus reluctantly relayed the requested information.

“In Kaon, Cybertronians of Cold Constructed origin are the perpetrators in seventy-five percent of reported crime. They make up eighty-six percent of the calculated recidivism. Forged Cybertronians make up the other twenty-five and fourteen percent.”

Proteus nodded and his optics bore into Minimus.

“In Vos, perpetrators of Cold Constructed build, make up seventy point six percent of reported crime rates, and eighty-two percent of the calculated recidivism. Forged perpetrators are the other twenty-nine point four and eighteen percent.”

Minimus met Proteus optics. “Anything else, Senator?”

“No,” Proteus said with a wave of the hand. “Continue with your presentation.” 

Minimus took a steading vent. He returned to explaining the new patrol policy. Minimus was twenty minutes into explaining when he noticed the chamber occupants were beginning to lose interest. He could see Decimus’s optics dim to a dull glow. 

Regardless, he powered through. As boring as it was, Minimus knew the information was important and felt a sense of responsibility to impart it. 

Afterwards, Minimus arrived at his final point. “Before I finish, I want to make you all aware of the rising number of missing Disposable reports. As Disposables are not considered sentient, these are filed as stolen property reports. I know the majority of you do not consider this to be notable, especially when compared to other issues like the energon crisis, but I would like it to be known that these complaints have risen by as much as twenty-three percent in the last year.”

There was no response to this, and taking the clue, Minimus thanked the chamber for listening and returned to his seat. 

Proteus took his place. “Esteemed Senators, Justices, and honorable Prime, as you know, I’ve been intending to propose and pass this law for a while. I wanted to ensure I had the facts correct before bringing this to you.” Proteus looked up at Minimus coldly. “Now, with verification from the extremely credible information provided by the Ultra Magnus I can in good conscience can make a move on this.”

Minimus felt a cold unease crawl up his fuel lines. 

“Cold Constructed mechs are more predisposed to engage in criminal activity. I have backing on this claim from multiple mnemosurgeons. It’s the way the logic circuits in the frontal processor form as opposed to when a processor develops during the deep coding of a forged mech. If anyone questions these statements, I have provided each of you with contacts to the appropriate professionals.”

Proteus gestured to where Minimus’s PowerPoint had been projected.

“The cities that have the highest population of Cold Constructed Mecha: Vos and Kaon, have the highest rates of crime and recidivism. Additionally, the majority of perpetrators were also Cold Constructed. 

Minimus wanted to scream that they weren’t looking at the entire picture. That there were more factors than how a mech was made. Class, education level, frame type, income, discrimination. Those were all contributing factors to why Cold Constructed mech offended more often, and nobody was mentioning it.

“I have contacts in many educational institutions and many of them suffer from theft, most often at the hands of Cold Constructed students and staff. I have several statements from high positioned members of staff confirming this. So I am proposing the banning of Cold Constructed mecha from attending and working at education facilities.” 

The evidence seemed indisputably fabricated and cherry picked, but as Minimus heard murmurs around him, he felt his spark drop in horror. 

Some of the mechs around him were actually considering it. 

Minimus thought of Megatron, anxious to begin an education, and suddenly felt sick.

A vote was called.

The soft shuffle of Mechs moving to make their decision filled the chamber. 

Minimus felt his vents speed up uncontrollably. 

Dai Atlas worked out the verdict.

_I helped provide the evidence for this_ Minimus thought, feeling as if he would purge.

Proteus’s law lost by one vote.

In the aftermath of the meeting, Minimus felt like a wreck. He was shaky and anxious and his vents shuddered with effort. Even in the armor, it felt as though his legs would collapse under him.

He was so out of it he didn’t notice two mechs approaching him until someone tapped him on the side. Minimus snapped his helm down to see who had touched him.

Standing there was a very concerned looking Senator Momus and a grinning Emirate Xeon. 

“Are you alright?” Momus asked, voice calm and soothing. 

The mech’s worry was touching, and Minimus found himself nodding in reassurance.

“Yes, quite alright, thank you.” 

Xeon, as if taking Minimus’s words as permission, stepped forward. He got into Minimus’s personal space and stuck out a hand forcefully.

Not wanting to be rude, Minimus took it.

“So nice to meet you, Ultra Magnus sir.”

Minimus managed to make it through the handshake without grimacing. He didn’t like to judge based on rumors, but Xeon’s reputation was questionable at best. A blatantly corrupt politician and known interface addict, Xeon was seen with countless buymechs, and was often lewd with his words in public.

Politely put, Minimus didn’t know where those hands had been.

“I wasn’t at your ceremony, but I want to wish you a happy future with your new conjunx.” Xeon met Minimus’s optics, and Minimus found himself uncomfortable with the Emirate’s gaze. 

“I’m sure you must be a very happy mech. Tarnish mechs are only good for one thing after all. And I’m sure yours has been around the block enough to _really_ know what he’s doing.”

Xeon licked his lips and Minimus recoiled in disgust.

It was clear Xeon hadn’t expected Minimus to be offended. His optics widened and he looked regretful about the comment. Before Minimus could gather himself and demand an apology for the revolting implication made about Megatron, Xeon congratulated him once again, gave a hurried excuse and made a hasty exit.

Momus shook his head. “I don’t know why we still allow him in here,” he muttered. 

Momus looked up at Minimus, sympathetic. “I’m sorry, I know you’re going through a lot right now, but I thought you should know.”

His voice slid into a whisper. Proteus wasn’t lying when he said he has contacts at educational facilities. That’s why he knows about your conjunx’s application and he’s furious about it. Ultimately, he can’t influence their acceptance, especially for a Noble, so he’s looking for a different route.” 

Momus’s optics darted to the side, alert. “Proteus’s law didn’t pass today, but that’s temporary. When Proteus wants something, he doesn’t give it up, and Proteus doesn’t want Megatron to have access to an education or platform. So please, keep an optic out.”

* * *

It was the day of the Ambus dinner. Megatron sat in the office with Rapido, going through some incomplete paperwork. It came surprisingly easy for Megatron. The words and concepts simply made sense.

Today however, Megatron was finding it difficult to focus. He couldn’t help but let his mind wander between the ensuing dinner and the decepticon forum. 

He had explored the forum extensively before daring to post anything. It was a fairly simple setup, but what floored him, was this group was using his writings as their ideology.

Logically he knew his writings were being read. Terminus had assured him that as he somehow distributed them.

But to actually see it was something completely different- strange, flattering, inspiring.

He sent a message thanking Cassette before posting a new political piece. It seemed Cassette made his identity known on the forum, because hundreds of users flocked to the piece, commenting and starting discussions about it. 

A comm call jolted Megatron out of his reminiscing. It was Minimus. Shooting Rapido an apologetic look, he answered.

“Hello?” Came Minimus’s voice.

“Hello, Minimus. Is everything ok?”

“Indeed, thank you for your concern.” Minimus’s voice did a little jump that Megatron had come to know meant he was gratuitous or pleased. “I’m heading home early to help with preparations for tonight. Are you ok getting home on your own?”

“Yes, I will be fine. Thank you for letting me know in advance.”

The call ended and Megatron continued trying to keep his thoughts in the present.

After what felt like no time at all, the day ended. Megatron bid Rapido goodbye and left the station. Cybertron’s sun was beginning to set, casting the planet into a soft darkness.

He was walking past an alley when he heard a strange sound. It was like a gurgle mixed with shrieking vibrating metal. 

Curious and disturbed, Megatron slowly entered the alleyway. It was pitch dark, but Megatron’s optics were made for those conditions. They quickly adjusted and Megatron found himself looking at a mech barely keeping himself standing by using the wall.

He was gradually moving forward. With every shaky step, his shoulder dragged along the wall and sparks jumped off the metal with a nasty screech.

The mech was caked in grime with dented plating and chipped paint.

The most unnerving part was the mech’s yellow optics. They were looking straight at Megatron, but they weren’t seeing him. They remained blank and empty.

Suddenly, the mech stopped moving. He croaked out. “Is this the enforcement station?” and slumped strutless against the wall.

Megatron rushed forward, catching the mech before he fell to the ground. Without warning, the mech began violently convulsing. It was only once the mech was face down in Megatron’s arms did he notice the circuit booster lines jacked halfway into the mech’s helm. 

Panicking, Megatron scooped the mech up into his arms and tore off in the direction of the nearest repair clinic. 

He got there so fast a speedster would be impressed. He burst into the waiting room and hurried up to the bot at the counter.

“This mech needs immediate medical attention,” he blurted, vents heaving out hot air from sprinting the entire way there.

The secretary took one look at the mech in Megatron’s arms and gave him a smile filled with discomfort.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said with feigned politeness. “We don’t serve his kind here.”

Megatron stared in disbelief, then got closer to the counter in desperation. 

“Please,” Megatron pleaded. “He really doesn’t look good and without medical care-”

“Sir,” the secretary said firmly. “I said we don’t treat leakers here. Please take him out immediately.”

The mech convulsed again and he started smoking as energon dripped from his mouth.

The secretary made a dispassionate grunt before addressing Megatron again. “Sir, if you don’t leave, I will call security to escort you out.” 

Numb, Megatron turned and exited the clinic, unsure about what to do. His first instinct was to call Minimus, but it wasn’t as if Minimus could do anything. He was a full commute away and hospital policy was hospital policy.

It was then that Megatron realized he had another option. He commed the medic he’d met at the Rodion enforcer station.

“Hello, Ratchet, it’s Megatron.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter and more politics. Hope you guys liked it! If you did, please, leave a comment down below! 
> 
> See you in the next chapter!


	9. Part 1 Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so late and I'm so sorry. This chapter kicked my ass; I just couldn't write it. It took way too much time but it's done!  
> *shoves chapter out* Enjoy

The address Ratchet gave put Megatron’s destination a decent trip away from his current location. Luckily the mech was a light speedster, making carrying him very doable for Megatron’s no nonsense frame. He took a public transport with the injured mech, getting into a car filled with cybertronians returning from their day jobs. 

Megatron shuffled aboard, feeling the curious and suspicious optics on him. He supposed it wasn’t everyday a mining frame appeared on city transport with a half dead mech cradled in his arms. 

The actual trip was surprisingly fast. Ratchet had given him instructions of where to get off over comm. The mech made a small distressed noise as the area around the lines jacked into his helm began to pop and spark.

Megatron grimaced. _This trip may not be fast enough,_ he thought grimly. He got off at the stop from Ratchet’s directions and made his way down darkened streets until he arrived. 

Ratchet’s clinic was somehow exactly what and nothing like Megatron imagined. It was located in a rundown area right on the edge of the Dead End. It was the kind of small, humble establishment he could picture Ratchet owning, but was so unlike the sterile towers of prestige hospitals had always been to him.

The kind doctor Megatron remembered met him in the entryway and hurried him inside. Ratchet directed him to place the mech on a medical berth and began an examination. He cursed under his breath, then started to work on removing the circuit boosters from the mech’s helm. 

Megatron stood by awkwardly, unsure if he should simply leave or wait around until Ratchet finished. In the end, and after standing in the corner for much too long, Megatron elected to call Minimus.

He hailed the frequency. The other side was picked up immediately, as if the receiver had been waiting. 

“Megatron?” came Minimus breathless voice. 

“Yes, it’s me Minimus.”

A current of air blew through the comm as if Minimus had released a large vent. “I’m so glad you’re alright,” Minimus said, his words uncharacteristically fast and strung together. “You didn’t come home and didn’t call and when I contacted Rapido he said you’d already left the office.”

Megatron found himself taken aback at Minimus’s apparent panic. While they got along perfectly fine and Megatron enjoyed the company of his conjunx, they also hadn’t known each other very long. He hadn’t expected the other to worry so much. “I’m completely fine, Minimus,” he assured, keeping his tone as relaxed as he could.

A shuddering breath sounded. When Minimus’s voice returned it was calm and much more in line with the composed mech Megatron knew. 

“I apologize for my irrationality. There’s been recent campaigning attempts against Cold Constructs, spearhead by certain government officials. I called you several times, but you didn’t pick up and didn’t return or contact me, I assumed the worst.”

Megatron frowned in confusion. He didn’t remember receiving any calls on his comm, but he supposed he’d been terribly distracted on the way to the clinic. 

“I also apologize for my oversight. I should have called you to explain my situation.” 

Megatron began telling Minimus about the recent course of events: Finding the damaged mech, being refused from the hospital and traveling to Ratchet’s clinic in search of medical care.

Throughout the explanation, Minimus remained incredibly understanding and even praised Megatron’s quick thinking and compassion. When Megatron promised to find public transport back as soon as possible, Minimus refused.

“No, I’ll have a House transport come pick you up and bring you straight to the Estate.”

“You don’t have to,” Megatron protested. “Finding a way back will be no issue.”

“Please, Megatron, just let our transport pick you up.” There was a note of desperation in Minimus’s voice. “The Ambus dinner is still tonight and I’d like to know you’re safe.”

Megatron reluctantly agreed and after a quick goodbye, ended the call. 

“That your new conjunx?”

Megatron looked up to see Ratchet squinting at something on a monitor. Megatron nodded, then belatedly realized Ratchet wasn’t actually looking at him.

“Yes it is,” he said. “I’m guessing you watched the ceremony on the holovid.”

“No.” Ratchet typed something into the monitor. “Pax watched it and relayed the information to me with all the enthusiasm of a kicked turbofox.”

Orion Pax, Megatron remembered. He was thankful for the officer’s intervention in the jail cell and acquisition of medical care. Orion Pax was clearly a good mech, but he couldn’t imagine why the enforcement captain would find the bonding upsetting. 

“Ah, forget I said that,” Ratchet said with a dismissive wave. He stepped back over to the mech on the medical slab, shaking his helm disapprovingly. “Jacking circuit boosters straight into the processor,” he muttered. “Foolish.” 

It was then that a realization hit Megatron. “You did it,” he said softly, the thought forming as he spoke. “The only spark scan I ever had was in that cell, and you told the medic to send it to you.”

Ratchet’s expression remained unchanged.

“You sent the scan to the Senate.”

“Yes,” Ratchet said gruffly. “You were misclassified, so I passed the information on to an authority. He sent it to a Senate member, granted with a little prod from me.”

“Why?” Megatron watched Ratchet pull a medical tool from a nearby cabinet. “It can’t have been the safest option for you and who's to say it was misclassification. There’s no precedent for a Cold Construct with my spark type.” 

Ratchet’s response was cut off by the mech suddenly sitting up. His systems whined noisily and he peered at Megatron with hazy optics. “Wha’s goin’ on?” he slurred. 

Ratchet put a hand on his chest and firmly pushed him back down on the slab. “Everything’s alright. You’re alright. What’s your name, kid?” 

The mech frowned in thought. “Drift,” he said after a moment. 

Well Drift, you’re in my clinic,” Ratchet explained. “You uploaded some boosters straight to your processor and it nearly killed you.”

Drift blinked blearily and Ratchet sighed. “Lay back,” he directed. “I’ve gotta flush the rest of the circuit charge out of your systems.” 

Ratchet hooked a machine up to his patient. Drift’s optics went dark, but the wheeze of his frame abated. 

“There we are,” Ratchet murmured. “Just relax.” His voice was calming in a strangely rough sort of way. He showed his irritation unsubtly and with no restraint, but there was genuine care in his words and actions. It made Megatron remember why he’d trusted this mech so quickly during their first meeting. 

“I did it because it’s my job,” Ratchet said suddenly. Megatron looked over at him curiously. 

“Megatron, you’re a hybrid- the first known one. It would have been negligent of me to say nothing. And besides…” Ratchet jerked his helm towards Drift. “I see the problems of mechs born low in class and kept down by our government. Pit, that’s why I started this clinic. I saw you and thought for once I could do more than treat someone and then send them right back to where they started.” 

“Thank you,” Megatron said.

Ratchet gave him a sardonic grin. “You’re welcome, I guess. Though I can't say I meant to get you conjunxed. How’s that going anyway? I’ve only heard good things about the current Magnus, but you never know.” 

“It’s good,” Megatron said. He thought of Minimus and a small smile graced his lips. “He’s very accommodating.” 

Ratchet raised an optic ridge. “Accommodating?” He snorted. “That some kind of buzz word?.” 

Megatron sniffed playfully. “It’s appropriate,” he shot back good naturedly. The loud and recognizable chime of a transport sounded from outside. 

Megatron gave Ratchet an apologetic look. “I really should go. I have dinner with my House.” 

Ratchet moved his hand in a shoo motion. “Don’t let me hold you up.”

Megatron nodded, gave a quick wave, and made his way to the clinic’s exit. He was halfway out the door when Ratchet called out to him. “My statement still stands: Give me a call if you need something.” 

“Of course,” Megatron replied. He left the building and got into the transport. 

* * *

Trudging to the Estate door, Megatron checked his chronometer and winced. Lateness was definitely not the way to endear himself to his House members. He ran a hand down his faceplates, then reached up to knock.

Before he could touch the metal, the door slid open. In the entryway stood an agitated looking Rewind.

“Oh thank Primus,” Rewind groaned. “If I had to listen to Influx moan on about how great the taxonomy is for one more klick, I would have killed myself.” 

Megatron blinked at him, bewildered. 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Rewind stepped aside and gestured for Megatron to come in. “Everyone’s expecting you. And I wish you the sincerest apology and sympathy for that.”

Rewind led him to the dining room. Just before entering, he murmured, “Some advice from someone who’s done this before: The crippling disappointment is natural. Be glad there’s so few of them tonight.” Rewind took four more steps to Megatron’s one, then paused. “Oh, and try your best to avoid conversation with Parson.”

They walked into the dining room. At the long table sat six mechs and two empty seats. There was an overwhelming amount of facial insignias, that was only broken by the smooth white faceplate of Minimus’s armour. Dominus and Minimus sat across from each other, both with an empty seat beside them for Rewind and Megatron respectively. 

The rest of the mechs were vaguely familiar. Megatron racked his processor and reasoned he’d probably seen them at the bonding reception. He crossed the room and took his seat next to Minimus. 

Minimus gave him an indecipherable look. He leaned towards Megatron slightly, hand reaching out before stopping, and moving back to his own lap, action aborted. 

Instead, he looked to the occupants of the table and said rigidly, “House members, this is my conjunx, Megatron Ambus of Tarn.” Minimus pointed to the mech at the head of the table. “Megatron, this is the Head of our House, Fortis Ambus.” 

Fortis nodded in acknowledgement. He was an elegant looking mech- Medium height and streamlined with yellow optics, vivid green plating and the largest facial insignia Megatron had ever seen. 

Minimus motioned to the lanky white speedster at the right furthest corner of the table, sat between Minimus and Fortis. “Fortis’s creation, Influx Ambus.” 

A tall, broadshoulderd, murky blue and green accented mech waved cheerfully from Dominus’s right. “Maximo Ambus.” 

The last mech sat at the other end of the table. He was of unremarkably size and frame with black plating with a white collar faring. His dark blazing red optics seemed to burn holes into Megatron’s plating. 

“And this is Parson Ambus,” Minimus finished. With the introductions done, Megatron felt Minimus relax minutely. 

“Right,” Influx said, nearly glaring at Dominus. Out of the corner of his optic, Megatron saw Rewind wilt. “As I was saying, the taxonomy is what’s really keeping Cybertron in its current economic expansion. Think about it. When you _actually_ look at the statistics-” 

“Come now, Influx. You don’t know anything about economics,” Maximo cut in. He leaned back in his chair and gave a hearty laugh that boomed through the room. “If you did, you’d still have a hand in that stock Fortis let you handle.”

Influx’s straightened as an indignant cloud of steam left his frame. “I didn’t- how did you?”

“I handle the House finances,” Maximo reminded him smugly.

Influx forced his features into a blank stare and slowly sank down into his seat. “Yes,” he said, as if reminding himself. “Sire gave you the job.”

Maximo let out another laugh. “Don’t fret. You’ll get another chance and when you do, you’ll have had the experience to succeed.” Maximo smiled blithely and Megatron got the impression the mech was oblivious of the embarrassment he’d just caused. 

“Speaking of stocks,” Maximo continued, “You should see the racing consultancy I managed to buy into!”

Maximo delved into a seemingly different language and Megatron found himself zoning out. Soon he’d completely lost track of the conversation.

The servants began bringing out the energon, carrying the glasses on large platters. Megatron gave a quiet thanks to Arc, then watched as most of the House members took their energon without so much as a word to the servants. 

Parson actually made a face of disgust when Roll’s hand accidentally brushed his. He jerked away and wiped his hand on the edge of the table. 

Maximo took a long drink. Seeing an opening, Dominus began to talk. “Maximo, you said you started business negotiations with the House of Decimus. I thought we agreed that our house shouldn’t do business with them. You know they’re proponents of limiting the rights of Disposables and Cold Constructed mechs alike.”

Maximo frowned. “I don’t remember that conversation.”

“Maybe you should see a medic,” Influx pipped up snidely. “All the rust in your processor can’t be good for the memory.” 

“You think so?” Maximo asked, looking into his energon thoughtfully. “I’ll make an appointment when I get home. Thanks, Influx.” He gave Influx an honest grin. “You always did look out for me.”

Influx offered a pained smile in return.

Maximo turned to face Megatron with that unwavering exuberance. “How’s upper class suiting you, Megatron?” 

Megatron froze, suddenly aware of everyone’s optics on him. He put down the glass that had been resting at his lips mid-drink, and cleared his vocalizer. 

“It’s been wonderful,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Life is much cleaner and safer and Minimus has only been exceedingly kind to me.” Megatron glanced over at Minimus and caught a softer expression on his faceplates.

Maximo nodded. “And how are you spending your time? I’d imagine it’s quite boring being trapped in here all day.” 

“I haven’t been trapped here,” Megatron said, slightly confused. “I go out every day. I have an internship at the enforcement law department and am waiting to be enrolled in The Institute for Higher Programming.” 

The whole table seemed to tense up. Megatron surveyed the room now filled with grimaces and tight expressions. 

Influx sniffed haughtily. “That’s against Noble tradition. The subservient conjunx shouldn’t be allowed to leave the Estate, much less attend an institute.” His olfactory sensor scrunched up in disdain. “And I’m guessing that means you’re planning to pursue a career. At least tell me you’ll be getting a reformat.” 

“I-no?” Megatron looked over to Minimus for help, rather lost. 

“That’s not something we’re looking into,” Minimus said, jumping into the conversation. “It’s expensive, immensely painful, and an unnecessary major risk to Megatron’s health.”

“Unnecessary?” Parson rasped angrily, his voice sounding like there were glass shards in his voice box. “If he doesn’t get a reformat he’ll be a labor frame doing a job he wasn’t made for! It’s a bastardization of Primus’s very will!” 

Parson rose from his seat and pressed a hand over his spark. “Tome of five, chapter eight, line ninety-two,” Parson recited. “And in the beginning there was one. He who was all, split into five, each made to fulfill a single, preordained purpose. And so he crafts all his children the same, for Primus knows, one is incapable of all.”

“Exactly,” said Influx with uncertainty. “It will damage the House of Ambus’s reputation to have a labor frame do work so far from his station.”

“It disrespects Primus’s will,” Parson added insistently.

“That too,” Influx said. 

“He shouldn’t have to,” a quieter voice said. Megatron looked over to see Rewind, arms crossed and appearing very uncomfortable. “His class is legally Intellectual, and if he gets his function changed before a job application there are no laws against it-”

“Be silent!” Parson snapped. “I don’t need a drone lecturing me.”

Dominus leaned forward, blue optics frigid with anger. “You will not speak to my Conjunx that way, Parson.”

“He’s not your conjunx,” Parson snarled back. “Not legally. He’s just some drone you bought to play house with.” Parson’s gaze whipped over to Minimus then back to Dominus. “I always knew you and your brother were a plague on this House. His size, your disgusting affection for disposables. Neither of you could even manage to procure a bonding that would bring any benefit to this House. A useless drone and some sort of low class, blasphemous hybrid are what you brought.”

Parson’s lips drew back in a nasty sneer. “Though I suppose it makes sense, given both of your alt modes—”

“Enough!” Fortis barked.

Parson dropped back into his seat, still seething with rage.

Fortis fixed Parson with a firm gaze. “We do not speak of that, and we most certainly do not insult members of our House so boorishly.” He placed a hand on the table top. “Minimus has brought us honor and prestige by receiving the role of Ultra Magnus and Dominus improves our House’s reputation with his research. If I’m not mistaken, Dominus and Rewind are leaving on one such research trip quite soon.”

Dominus nodded cautiously. 

“I won’t stand the accusation of them lacking worth. And moreover,” Fortis turned his yellow optics on Megatron. “Minimus has brought us a Point One Percenter through his bonding. Megatron may be a forged spark in a Cold Constructed body, but that is our government’s fault, not his. I doubt Primus would blame him for his existence.” 

Parson averted his optics, thoroughly chastised, but Megatron could still see the anger lacing his frame.

Fortis gave a small smile. “With such a strong spark, you’ll be an asset to the Ambus House. Tell me, when were you planning to carry Minimus sparkling?”

Megatron’s thoughts came screeching to a sudden halt. “Sparkling?” he echoed, and felt Minimus squirm beside him. 

“It is the subservient Conjunx’s role,” Fortis said. “Though with a frame and spark as powerful as yours I can’t imagine it’ll be much of an effort.” 

Maybe it was the indignity of being dragged from his old life to be bonded in front of all of Cybertron catching up with him. Maybe it was everyone knowing something as personal as his spark type or a servant telling him what his interfacing life would look like. Maybe it was as simple as being called a low class blasphemous hybrid. 

Whatever the cause, the low burn of humiliation and outrage bubbled up in the back of Megatron’s intake. Minimus set a heavy hand on his arm in an attempt of reassurance, but it was too late. The feelings melted his inhibitions away and unchecked words started to fall from him freely.

“That’s none of your business,” Megatron growled. I’m not going to be used as a sparkling factory and If sparklings are even a possibility is between me and my Conjunx.” 

The table lapsed into horrified silence. Then Influx was jumping to his pedes. “How dare you show the head of your House such disrespect,” he began, but stopped when Fortis burst into a robust round of laughter. 

The sound was throaty and loud- not as loud as Maximo’s laughter, but it still carried. 

Influx slowly and incrementally lowered himself back down, confusion written across his faceplates. 

“Sire,” he tried, but Fortis waved him off, letting the last of his chuckles peter out. “I like you,” Fortis finally said, grinning at Megatron. “You’ve got fire.” He turned to Minimus. “Bring him around the other Estates some time. “It’s been far too boring lately.” 

Minimus gave a jerky nod as Fortis sank contentedly into his chair. The rest of the table seemed to be at a loss for words after the turn of events. Everyone traded unsure glances and sipped at their energon. 

Maximo made a bad joke to get conversation started and there was awkward small talk for the rest of dinner. 

About an hour later, the last of their guests had left. Fortis had told Minimus to ‘Attend next dinner without the armour’ on account of him ‘Dreadfully missing Minimus’s facial insignia’ and Megatron found himself even more worn out from the amount of forced pleasantries and insincere well wishes filling the goodbyes. 

As soon as the door was shut, Rewind and Dominus bid them goodnight and retired to their room. Minimus heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have told you what to expect earlier. I simply wasn’t expecting…” He gestured helplessly. “What occurred.” 

“It’s fine, Minimus,” Megatron assured him. “Just please tell me these sorts of events don’t happen often.” 

“No,” Minimus said. Megatron could hear the relief in his voice. “There are twenty-one Ambus House members, excluding conjunxes, and most of us can’t tolerate one another. It’ll be awhile before the next gathering.” 

“I’m going to retire to the berthroom,” Minimus announced with a hint of shyness. “Care to join?” 

“Go ahead, I’ll be there in a bit.” 

Minimus nodded and walked off in the direction of the stairs. Megatron headed to the kitchen, passing through the dining room on the way. He opened the door and poked his helm in.

Three pairs of optics landed on him.

“I just wanted to ask if all of you are ok,” Megatron explained to the servants. Arc nodded enthusiastically. “We’re fine, sir. Why wouldn’t we be?” 

“Just making sure,” Megatron murmured. “I know you’re used to it, but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry you were treated rudely tonight.” 

Roll shrugged and Nickel snorted. “Thanks, I guess.” Her optics moved down then narrowed. “What’s that on your arm?” she demanded. 

Megatron looked down. “Lower,” Nickel directed. Sure enough, on the underside of his upper arm was an abrasion. The paint had been rubbed off and the area was flecked with reddish-brown. 

Nickel got closer and gripped Megatron’s wrist. She tugged him down and began examining the spot. “Rust rash,” she finally decided. “Have you been rubbing up against corroded metal lately?”

An image of Drift popped into Megatron processor. He thought about how he’d been carrying the mech with cracked and rusted plating and how Drift’s helm had most certainly been rubbing up against his arm. 

Nickel didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she let Megatron back up and pointed at the rash. “Wash it without solvent tonight. It could make it flare up worse. Your self-repair should take care of things pretty fast.” 

“You really are a medic,” Megatron mused.

Nickel didn’t respond. She crossed her arms and stared up at him with a scowl. Megatron took his cue and left for his berthroom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Consider leaving your thoughts in the comments below!


	10. Part 1 Chapter 10

It was possible this had been a terrible idea. Ratchet sighed and stared up at the needlessly tall high-rise apartment building. 

When Pharma had invited him over, Ratchet initially planned to say no. But almost as if he knew what the response would be—and knowing Pharma, he probably did—Pharma mentioned he was also inviting Hoist. The mech was one of Ratchet’s old friends from medical school and Pharma's coworker. 

The plan was to relax at Pharma’s and then, if they were feeling up to it, go down to watch the Iaconian lights. 

Unfortunately, last minute, Hoist had called Ratchet to let him know a conflict came up and he wouldn’t be coming. Ratchet felt a rush of fondness at the consideration Hoist showed notifying him although he wasn’t the host. But the thoughtfulness was regrettably, too late. By that time, Ratchet was already in front of the building. 

He could have canceled- made up some kind of excuse or even been honest and told Pharma he was uncomfortable. He could have, but it seemed cowardly in a sense. Ratchet had always staunchly believed in facing one’s problems head on. 

So, with another sigh, Ratchet entered the building. The worst thing that could happen was Pharma making an unwanted advance. In that scenario, Ratchet could just let him down gently. He was a medic. He could deal with a little awkwardness; it was practically part of the job. 

The elevator: A platform that moved up a clear glass shaft stretching up miles into the air with the building, was rather disconcerting. 

Ratchet had never liked heights. He wouldn’t go far enough to call it a phobia, but he enjoyed his pedes being firmly on the ground. It didn’t help that Pharma lived on the top floor. 

Once in front of the large door of Pharma’s residence, Ratchet sent him a comm message. A moment passed and then the door slid open to reveal no one in the entrance.

 _Must’ve sent a command to the door,_ Ratchet mused. His assumption was confirmed as he made his way into the considerable space of the living room. It was an open area with sleek furniture and the glass paneling that Ratchet had expected. 

The kitchen could be seen from where Ratchet was standing, and poking out from behind one of the white pillars separating the rooms, was a wing. Sinking down into one of the surprisingly comfortable couches, Ratchet listened to the sounds of Pharma moving around the kitchen. 

The sound of an energon dispenser met Ratchet’s audials and soon Pharma was strolling into the room with two cubes in hand. 

“Ratchet,” he welcomed, the name sliding off his glossa. He sat next to him on the couch and handed over an energon cube. “Hoist won’t be coming.”

“I’m aware. He called me.” Ratchet took a drink. 

Pharma mirrored him, bringing the cube up to his own lips. “It’s a shame, but maybe it’s for the best. We hardly spend any time together anymore.”

Ratchet squinted at him. “We regularly go out for dinner together.” 

Pharma scoffed. “Still so much less than when you worked at Deltaran Medical Facility with me. Now you’re always at that clinic.”

“It’s my clinic. Why wouldn’t I be there?”

“I’m not trying to be offensive,” Pharma said with an idle flick of a wing. “The work you’ve put into starting it is impressive. I just miss your company at work. Is that a crime now?” 

Ratchet snorted.

“Rude,” Pharma announced with a playful swat to Ratchet’s arm. “I thought you had manners.”

Ratchet made another ugly snort. “That’s your imagination running wild. Even if I had, the Dead End fixed that.”

“Speaking of which—” Pharma ran a digit along the rim of the glass. “Last I talked to you, you picked up another Leaker. Did you really leave him alone to come here?” 

“Please, Pharma,” Ratchet sighed. “What’s he gonna do, steal something? The only real things of value are too heavy to carry out.”

Even as he said it, Ratchet couldn’t imagine Drift doing that. It sounded rather naive in practice, but Ratchet prided himself on his uncannily good character judgement. He was sure Drift wouldn’t steal unless he was in need and while living at the clinic, there was no need. 

“I just want to know why he’s still there,” Pharma said with a shrug. “It’s been a week and from what I’ve heard you say, he’s recovered enough to leave."

Ratchet sighed. “He doesn’t have anywhere to go. I didn’t have the spark to kick him out. And besides, he’s taken it upon himself to clean the clinic in...I don’t know, payment I guess.” 

Pharma tutted at him. “You can’t keep all the strays, Ratchet. And speaking of which, I was wondering if you could do me a favor.” 

Ratchet arched an optic ridge at him and Pharma rolled his optics in response.

“A few nights ago, someone brought in a mech they found on the side of the road. I don’t know why they admitted him, but they did. Apparently the guy’s got a PIC installed, but the enforcers won’t come pick him up. They keep insisting he’s still in prison, although he’s clearly not.”

“Where are you going with this, Pharma?”

“Let me finish, and you’ll see. The patient has some serious knife and burn injuries, but we should be able to get him in a stable condition in about a month. Deltaran Medical Facility doesn’t need any blows to its reputation for housing someone like that. Can you take him?”

Ratchet looked down into his cube, wishing a bottle of high grade would magically take its place. If it took an entire month to ensure the patient was stabilized, there had to be some appalling damage. 

“In a month you want to transfer a seriously injured patient with potential permanent damage to my clinic? One that could possibly get me in trouble with the law?”

Pharma gave him a ridiculously hopeful look and Ratchet groaned. “Fine.”

He supposed it was somewhat better than the incessant flirting he’d been prepared to face. 

Pharma shifted closer, leaning into Ratchet’s side. “I always know I can count on you,” he purred. 

_There it is,_ Ratchet thought tiredly. It was possible this had been a terrible idea.

* * *

  
  
Megatron flipped through the papers on his desk. He’d held the internship for around a week and a half, but had learned a sizable amount about civil procedure, criminal procedure and some fundamentals of Cybertronian law.

And while he only possessed very basic knowledge in those areas, Megatron felt proud at what he’d picked up in such a short amount of time. 

He, who'd been brought online for the purpose of hard labor, was capable of learning- a fact that was in direct violation of Functionism and only added to Megatron’s disdain of the system. 

Rapido walked into the room, digit at his audial, clearly on a comm call. 

“He does know that doesn’t apply here, right?” Rapido asked. Megatron could hear the incredulity in his voice. 

Rapido went quiet as the speaker presumably responded. Rapido then let out a sharp breath of laughter. “It’s the fragging Territory Law. It’s ancient. I don’t even know how it could be used in today’s time.” Rapido leaned back against the wall. “Just tell him it doesn’t apply.” 

With that, Rapido hung up. Megatron looked over at him questioningly but Rapido only shook his helm. “Nothing of importance. Just someone getting further than they ought to on the basis of an outdated law. How’s the search going?” 

Megatron glanced down to where he’d been picking out and highlighting specific phrases from a court transcript. 

“Almost finished,” Megatron said curtly. “If I stay a little overtime today I can finish it for tomorrow.”

“No, you work hard enough, ” said Rapido from his position against the wall. “Go home and relax. We don’t need it for a couple of days.” 

Megatron nodded and before he knew it, he was waiting outside for Minimus. Minimus met him at the base of the staircase. He greeted Megatron with a murmured hello, a small smile on the armor’s white faceplates. 

“I have something for you,” Minimus informed him. He handed Megatron an enforcement issued datapad. On it was a letter of some sort.

“Take a look,” Minimus told him. “I’ll have it sent to you when we get home.” 

_Heya_ _Megs_ , the letter began. 

  
_Haven’t seen you since the bonding ceremony and wanted to check up on you. Hope the conjunxed life is everything it’s talked up to be. Your conjunx is kinda a hardaft, but he’s got that flowery language you seem to like. Plus he paid my bail so my opinion of him is slightly higher. The guy struck me as someone to treat a conjunx nice and now you get to live fancy. Congrats. (If he’s not treating you right I’ll figure something out when I get out.)_

_Anyways, I got my sentence and you’ll never believe it. I only got five years! They were talking about giving me a couple centuries but after they found out who paid my bail they dropped the battery and assault charges. I think five years for disorderly conducts a bit much but I’m not complaining. It doesn’t hurt to be friends with the conjunx of the Ultra Magnus._

_Found out the mine fired me so soon as I’m out I’m headed straight to your place to crash. Put in the good word for me to that conjunx of yours. Five years should be enough to convince him. Hope you don’t mind but I’m cashing in my best friend privileges. The next five years are going to be boring as slag so fraggin write me._

_-Impactor_

Megatron finished reading, feeling affection for his friend. He looked up at Minimus. “Did you read it?”

Minimus nodded as guilt spread across his features. “I apologize I intruded on your privacy, but It was delivered through my work channel. I wasn’t sure what I was reading until the end,” he admitted.

Megatron shrugged off the apology. “It’s fine, though I’m admittedly curious what you thought about certain parts.” 

“He clearly cares for you,” Minimus began, and Megatron could practically hear the ‘but’ at the end of it. 

“But I’m somewhat disappointed that he thinks I would harm you.” Minimus paused for a moment, considering. “I would also like to make it clear that I in no way manipulated the outcome of his trial.” 

“Of course,” Megatron replied, trying to stifle his amusement. He tried to hand the datapad back to its owner, but Minimus only swiped at its screen, leaving the datapad in Megatron’s hands. 

“There is one more message for you. I promise I haven’t read this one.”

_Dear Megatron Ambus of Tarn,_

_I am delighted to inform you of your acceptance into the The Institute of Higher Programming-_

Megatron stopped reading, and snapped his helm up to look at Minimus. The mech was smiling softly at him. 

Megatron reset his optics a couple times. Logically, he knew there was little to no reason he’d be denied admittance. He was now Intellectual class, bonded to a noble and part of a House. 

He shouldn’t have been surprised, but now that he was actually facing the prospect of going to school, there was a sense of disbelief and giddiness that left him stunned.

“I’ve been accepted?” Megatron asked, feeling breathless.

“Yes. You’ll be starting in a month.”

Megatron looked back down at the letter, but found he couldn’t focus on the rest of the words. Excited bliss sang through his circuits in a sensation that Megatron hadn’t felt since before the attempted mnemosurgery on Messatine, since before he’d been beaten in his cell in Rodion. 

Megatron moved before he thought, and in an instinctually happy moment, he embraced Minimus. As soon as he did, he felt his conjunx tense. Megatron cursed his impulsiveness and tried to back off, but before he could, Minimus’s arms came up to return the hug. 

It was stiff and strange but the reciprocation lessened the discomfort. Minimus slowly patted Megatron’s back and the two broke apart. They stood side by side, avoiding optic contact until Megatron dared a side glance to find some sort of cue for his next action.

Their gazes met and Minimus coughed awkwardly into his fist. “Well, your response makes this next part easier,” he said, his posture still a little stiff. “The Iaconian lights begin tonight. Would you like to attend with me?” 

Megatron nodded. “That sounds wonderful. Is the celebration just for one night?”

“No, the festivities last a week, but I’ve always found the first night the best in regards to the light show.” 

With that said, Megatron expected Minimus to call a transport. Instead, the mech started to walk off, beckoning Megatron with a come-hither sweep of a hand. Megatron followed, falling into pace beside his conjunx. 

The trip was short; only two city blocks. They arrived at an open space in the city, surrounded on all sides by towering buildings. Set up in neat rows were tents of varying sizes and shapes, but all white in color. 

Some had flags or signs attached, some rested over booths or counters and others were open on all sides with only a roof overhead. Most of them had menus or merchandise displayed, marking them as shops. 

Mechs milled about, setting up tents and stands, chatting, or simply roaming around. 

“Welcome to Trion Square. It’s much more impressive after dark,” came Minimus’s voice. Megatron turned to see Minimus looking at him with a pleased expression. 

Megatron almost asked why, but stopped himself. The sun was setting and it wouldn’t be long before he’d see himself. “I’m looking forward to it,” he said instead. 

The time waiting for the sun to set was spent exploring. Megatron wandered the square while Minimus trailed after, watching his conjunx discover the sights and smells. At every tent there was a multitude of cuisines and items Megatron had never seen. 

There were energon goodies of all types, beautifully scented polishes, seasonings made from freshly shaven materials like copper, specially carved styluses and so much more. 

Minimus had bought them each a hefty mug of some frothy energon drink- warm and rich- when the light show began. 

Streams of light in every color flickered on from sources all over the square. They all moved in some capacity- flowing side to side, up and down, or fluttering on and off. They crossed one another, streams mixing and separating constantly. 

Megatron looked up and immediately understood why all the tents were white. 

The lights hit the pale material, casting every surface into a brilliant collage of color. Megatron stared, entranced. And as he did, he realized the amount of mechs in the square had doubled since their arrival. 

A large hand patted Megatron on the shoulder. He looked over to see Minimus pointing up. “These are the decorations,” he said smoothly. “The real light show is above.” 

A simple movement of the helm revealed exactly what Minimus meant. Sitting in the sky was an enormous circle made of light. Color traveled along it, changing so fluidly that Megatron realized every point of the circle was made from one individual stream of light. 

The circle broke apart down the middle, both halves forming two smaller circles. The process occurred again, but this time the streams formed five prisms that somehow appeared solid and transparent at once. 

The lights continued to shift and change shape and color until the small streams expanded rapidly in a brilliant likeness of an explosion. Left behind was a mix of vivid purples, blues and blacks. A swirling galaxy with pinpricks of white stars filled the sky over Trion Square. 

It was magnificent. And although Megatron felt a tinge of grief at never being allowed to know about, much less attend a festival such as this, it was curbed by the enchantment and utter gratitude he also felt.

“Thank you,” Megatron whispered to his conjunx. 

“You’re welcome.” Out of the corner of his optic, Megatron caught sight of a peaceful smile on Minimus’s face.

* * *

It was in the late hours of the night when they arrived home. The Estate was dark and silent, with everyone in berth by now. 

Quietly, they ascended the stairs and made their way to their berth room. Once the door was firmly shut, both set about getting ready for recharge. 

When Megatron finished in the wash rack, he reentered the berth room to see Minimus half out of his armor, arm behind his back in a clear struggle to do something.

He watched a little while longer before speaking. “Do you need help?” Megatron asked softly.

Minimus turned to look at him, surprised. “I...one of the backplate releases sometimes sticks and I can’t reach the emergency catch,” he admitted. “I’ll have to do maintenance on it tomorrow.” 

Megatron took a few steps closer so he was behind Minimus. “Just show me how.” 

Minimus nodded and placed both hands on the desk to lean over. “There’s a tiny blue fastening slightly above the small of my back.”

Megatron squinted at the plating. Unable to see anything, he placed his hands on Minimus back and began to move them upwards, feeling for any protrusions. 

“Higher,” Minimus directed. 

Megatron’s digits found the catch and with a twist and tug, got it open.

Minimus breathed a sigh of relief as the armor opened up. He pulled himself out, quickly stretching when his pedes hit the floor. “Thank you,” he said as Megatron shuffled over to the berth and made himself comfortable atop it. 

Megatron watched as Minimus checked one of the work datapads on his desk as he often did before recharge. He read through something then sniffed disdainfully at it. He deposited the datapad back to its spot and came to join Megatron in berth. 

Minimus’s small frame curled up on his side of the berth and as he began to relax, Megatron realized Minimus had no intention of telling him what was wrong. 

“What was that about?” Megatron asked into the darkness of the room. “I’ve never seen you so resentful of work.”

“It wasn’t work related,” Minimus grumbled. 

Megatron waited, but there was no followup. “Then is everything alright?” he tried. 

A displeased hum left Minimus’s lips. “Influx sent me a message. I don’t know how, but he heard you were accepted into school and is begging me to have you reformatted.” 

Megatron stretched out his legs, trying to keep himself from fidgeting. Despite his efforts, Minimus seemed to sense his nervousness. He rolled over to face Megatron.

“There’s no need to worry,” Minimus said reassuringly. “Influx can beg as much as he wants, but he has no way to get what he wants. The only way you’ll get a reformat is if it’s something you really want.” 

Megatron fell into recharge to that comforting thought. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha, so I just realized despite the tag, it's Functionism not Functionalism and I've been spelling it wrong this entire time. I went back and fixed it so if you see those changes, that's why :)) 
> 
> But anyway, as always I hope you enjoyed and would love to hear your thoughts in the comments!


	11. Part 1 Chapter 11

A month passed before Ratchet knew it. Every day was spent as it usually was: fixing up Cybertronians from the area, ordering parts, managing the savings he put into the clinic. The only difference was the added company of Drift, but even still, the mech had somehow become a natural presence in the Dead End clinic. 

Drift kept the clinic spotless. Along with cleaning, he was always eager to receive a task. Ratchet knew that enthusiasm could be attributed to Drift trying to make himself useful enough that he’d be allowed to stay, but he’d also noticed a certain gratification the mech seemed to get from his work.

It was subtle, but most certainly there—a burgeoning pride at having a purpose, no matter how insignificant. 

Those looks of self-satisfaction convinced Ratchet to make his proposal. He offered Drift a small salary as a custodian and set up a small cot in the back room for Drift to stay until he could afford a place of his own. Both were accepted gratefully. 

“Pharma’s here with the patient.”

Ratchet looked over from where he’d been taking stock in the storeroom. Drift stood in the doorway, mop in hand. The mech was generally soft spoken, but he spoke the words in an almost whisper, barely loud enough for Ratchet to hear. He kept his optics firmly on Ratchet’s pedes, as if ashamed.

It was annoyingly reminiscent of the first couple weeks Drift had spent with him, treating Ratchet as if he were a noble rather than his employer. It made him wonder what Pharma had said to invoke such a reaction. 

“Thank you, Drift,” he said.

Drift nodded sullenly and left, presumably further into the clinic and away from Pharma. Ratchet put down the list he’d been checking and rubbed at his temples. It was time to get a look at this new patient. 

Deltaran Medical Facility had sent the patient’s file a week beforehand. The damage was the same as Pharma had described and outlined several major surgeries the patient had gone through. 

Ratchet left the storeroom and made his way to the front of the clinic. A rather large mech was moving the limp frame of the patient from a gurney to one of the medical slabs. Pharma was standing a little ways away near one of the consoles; eyeing it with a keen gaze.

The large mech finished shifting the patient and said something, to which Pharma nodded. The mech grunted something that Ratchet managed to understand as, “Meet you in the transport,” and took his leave.

Once the mech was gone, Ratchet gave Pharma an unimpressed look. “You need someone that massive to wheel this patient in?” he asked, skeptical. “He’s not that big.”

“He’s heavy,” Pharma countered. “You know how compact labor frames are. I’d rather not carry him if I don’t have to.”

“Fair enough,” Ratchet said, getting a better look at the mech on the slab. He was short, barely coming up to Ratchet’s shoulder; had a dull grey frame with red accents and a red optical visor. 

His frame was strewn with evidence of his treatment. Healing welding lines covered him from helm to pede. They stretched across every inch of his form- ugly thick marks that would definitely scar. 

The metal around his joints were blackened and warped with burn damage and a silvery plate of metal was grafted onto the side of his face to keep any foreign material out of the wound. 

Remembering the patient file, Ratchet realized that was where a hole the size of the patient’s entire cheek had been drilled into his face. 

“Has he gained consciousness at all?” Ratchet asked. 

“A few times, but never for long,” said Pharma. “He keeps passing out. We think his processor is trying to purge some of the memories.” 

Ratchet nodded grimly, having nothing to say in response. What the mech had to have gone through to get these kinds of injuries must have been nothing short of horrific. 

Pharma clapped Ratchet gently on the shoulder. “I need to head back to Deltaran. I really appreciate you doing this for me.”

“It’s no trouble.”

Pharma gave him a smile. “Tell your Leaker I said goodbye. He ran off the moment I started asking questions—skittish thing.”

“I will,” agreed Ratchet, already knowing there was more to that interaction than Pharma was letting on. 

Right before Pharma walked out the door he called, “Don’t forget to check the PIC!” Then he was gone. 

“What’s a PIC?” 

Ratchet turned to see Drift peeking in from the hallway. He still spoke too quietly, but Ratchet counted it as a win that Drift was looking him in the face again. 

“It’s a prisoner identification chip,” Ratchet answered, grabbing a medical cable. He lifted the patient’s arm carefully by the wrist and plugged the cable into the mech’s medical port. “It’s installed in a prisoner's chassis for the period of their incarceration and can be read with a scanner or through various ports. It’s connected to a database and makes it easier to keep track of prisoners during transfers to different facilities and to capture escapees.” 

The console screen lit up with the patient’s PIC profile and Ratchet read through the information— 

Designation: Frenzy of Bitrex 

ID Code: 45-CD1 

Class: Manual 

Origin: Cold Constructed

Location: Penal Facility H-3

Crime: Participating In A Riot, Resisting Arrest

Sentence Length: Indefinite

Status: Confined

Ratchet frowned at the status condition. Pharma had said there was no record of the patient being out of prison, but it was stranger when actually seeing the evidence. 

Drift cocked his helm in confusion and ventured forward until he stood next to Frenzy. “I’m pretty sure he’s not confined.”

Before Ratchet could respond, Frenzy let out a strangled gasp and sat up with shocking speed. Drift jumped back, startled, his arms raised to ward off any oncoming threat. 

Another gasp left Frenzy. It was harsh and desperate, but he didn’t move again. He sat there, completely still, vents flared and letting out creaky whines as they struggled to suck in too much air at once. 

Ratchet rushed over to the medical slab. He placed a cautious, but firm hand on his patient’s back. When Frenzy didn’t respond negatively to the contact, he began speaking slowly, voice low and steady. 

“It’s ok, everything’s ok. You’re safe,” he soothed. Gradually, the mech’s vents started to slow as his systems calmed down. 

“That’s good, just like that. Do you remember who you are?”

Frenzy nodded jerkily.

“Can you tell me what you remember?” Ratchet prompted. 

Frenzy only stared down blankly.

“Can you speak?”

Frenzy still didn’t move. 

“That’s perfectly alright. You’ve done so well already. Can you lay down for me?” When Frenzy didn’t respond, Ratchet gently maneuvered him until his back was flat against the slab. 

His patient’s dimly lit visor darkened and he fell unconscious once more. Drift looked on from a safe distance away. “You’re really good at that.”

“It’s my job,” Ratchet said gruffly.”

“To comfort people?” Drift shook his helm. “Your job is to fix people.”

Ratchet met Drift’s optics. “I find that sometimes, those are the same thing.” 

Drift stared at him searchingly. Then a brilliant smile broke across his face. “Yeah, doc, I suppose so. What’re you planning to do next?” 

“First, I’m going to figure out what’s wrong with his PIC information,” Ratchet said, searching through his comm frequencies. “Then I’ll do my best to help him.” 

Ratchet hailed the proper frequency and thankfully, Orion was just as responsive as usual. Within the hour he’d arrived at the clinic where Ratchet greeted him at the door. On their way inside, Drift passed by, yellow optics darting around in search of something.

“Hello,” Orion said affably. “I’m officer Orion Pax. How are you?”

Drift’s optics went round at the title and he ducked his helm, shrinking in on himself. “Hello,” he muttered.

Mistaking the body language for shyness rather than the unimpressed wariness Ratchet knew it to be, Orion took a step closer. “Are you a patient?”

“No, I work here,” Drift mumbled before hurrying into the hallway and out of sight. 

Orion looked to Ratchet, but Ratchet only shrugged. Even though Orion saw himself as a public servant, he was not a welcome sight for many mechs of the Dead End. No matter how justified he was in doing his job, for those mechs, Orion presence typically meant a jail cell for the night. 

Deciding to explain at a later time, Ratchet showed him the PIC profile on the screen. 

Orion’s brows furrowed as he checked the enforcement database. “There’s nothing to indicate—no wait, they’ve just updated it. Frenzy of Bitrex, reported dead. The recorded cause is age related burnout.”

“Age related burnout?” asked Ratchet, disgusted. 

“That’s what it says here.”

“That’s impossible.” Ratchet gritted his denta. “I’ve read his medical file. I’ve seen his system diagnostics. That mech isn’t even a million years old yet! Age related burnout my aft, I told you the types of injuries he received.”

“It could be a cover up,” Orion offered. “It unfortunately happens a lot when one prisoner attacks or kills another. Reports like that don’t look good for reputation, so wardens will have the cause of death changed. I bet that happened, but they announced his death prematurely and disposed of his frame.”

“I’m not sure, Orion. Those injuries couldn’t be sustained without...tools. There’s almost no blunt force trauma like you’d expect from a prison fight.”

Orion tapped a finger to his battle mask. “And he can’t tell you what occurred?” 

“No.” Ratchet glanced over at Frenzy. “He probably has severe trauma from whatever he went through. He won’t talk and I doubt he will anytime soon.” 

Orion followed Ratchet’s gaze and winced at the welds crisscrossing Frenzy’s frame. “In situations such as these, there are mnemosurgeons contracted by Enforcement that we can call in. They can access the memory so we can know what happened without him ever needing to talk.” 

“That...could...work,” Ratchet replied. “A mnemosurgeon would also be more equipped to treat a victim like this.” 

With Ratchet’s assent, Orion called the Bureau of Enforcement Resources. A nasally sounding mech picked up. “Hello, this is Iacon’s Enforcement Center Resource Department. How may I be of assistance?” 

“Yes, this is Rodion Captain, Orion Pax. I’d like to request a mnemosurgeon for a prisoner.”

“Alright, give me a klick to check your frequency and confirm your identity...Yes, that matches up. Can you tell me the prisoner’s PIC code?” 

Orion paused, debating if he should. The entire situation was suspicious, but Orion supposed the worst thing that could happen would be a denial of service due to Frenzy being pronounced dead in the database. 

“Forty-five C D one,” Orion said after a moment of deliberation. 

The voice on the other end went quiet. “Please wait while I transfer you to the proper channel,” the voice eventually said. The connection dropped, then just as quickly, reconnected. 

“Captain Orion Pax?” The new voice spoke with a very distinctive Kaonite accent.

That was a little odd. Cybertronians with thick Kaonite accents were very rarely found outside Kaon and Enforcement Resource Departments were regional. He should’ve been talking with someone in Iacon, not Kaon.

“Yes, this is him.” 

“To confirm, you are requesting a mnemosurgeon for prisoner Forty-five C D one, designation, Frenzy of Bitrex?” 

“That’s correct.” 

“Perfect,” the voice said with an bizarre amount of glee. “Your request has been approved and if you’ll give me your location, a mnemosurgeon will be with you in a couple of hours.”

Orion reset his optics, shocked by swiftness of the authorization. Requests were never processed in less than a few days, much less approved in non-emergency cases. Although feeling a sense of trepidation welling up from within, Orion told the mech the address, and with that, the call ended.

Immediately after, a message from Springarm pinged his comm. 

_Have you seen the news?_ It read. 

“Did they send a mnemosurgeon?” Ratchet asked 

“Hmm? Oh, yes. One will be here in a couple hours,” Orion said distractedly. “Ah, Ratchet, would you mind turning on your holocaster? Just for a moment.”

Ratchet frowned at him, but turned on the holocaster. It was already set to the news, and sure enough, a report was being broadcasted. 

_Senator Sherma Found Dead. Culprit Suspected To Be Decepticon Movement_ was the headline above the reporter explaining the story. 

* * *

  
"I wish you a safe and wonderful time."

Megatron mumbled a thank you as he stared up at what was once an unattainable dream. 

It was his first day at the Institute of Higher Programming and Minimus was fretting over him. It was a trait of Minimus’s that Megatron had observed often. Despite having power, money and influence, he was a habitual worrier. 

Megatron saw it in the way Minimus kept tabs on him, asked him about any troubles he might’ve had during the day and insisted on traveling to and from work with him.

It should have felt controlling, but somehow it didn’t. It made Megatron feel valued. 

He'd watched Minimus behave similarly towards, Dominus, Rewind, the servants of the Estate and even Ramp on a few occasions. Megatron realized it was just how Minimus showed that he cared. 

“Remember, if you need anything and can’t reach me, call Dominus.”

“Dominus and Rewind left for their research trip,” said Megatron. “I don’t think he’ll be of much use.” 

“Ramp then,” Minimus insisted. “Or Rapido. Do you have their comm frequencies?”

“I do,” Megatron told him firmly.

Minimus slumped slightly. “I apologize if I’m acting overbearing, but with the recent report, I—Megatron, people know who you are. They know the Decepticons are a movement started by your writings and they are going to be coming to you for answers about Sherma’s murder.” 

Megatron held back a grimace. The report, along with countless messages for Minimus, had come through as they were traveling to the school. Minimus was visibly stressed, and at that moment, Megatron regretted neglecting to tell his conjunx about his correspondence with Cassette and use of the Decepticon forum.

Once that was discovered—and Megatron was sure it would be with his identity being common knowledge for forum users—it would surely put him into a place of suspicion. 

Deeming it too risky to divulge that information in public, Megatron decided he would show Minimus the forum that night when he returned. 

Minimus looked around, as if expecting to see someone eavesdropping on their conversation. “A meeting for officials has been called in response to the murder. I’ll be attending and won’t be home until late tonight. Please, take the personal transport.”

“Of course,” Megatron promised, then watched as Minimus face scrunched up with annoyance. 

“Another message from Influx,” he explained at Megatron’s questioning gaze. 

Seeing a chance to lighten the mood, Megatron smirked. “He certainly doesn’t give up.” 

“He doesn’t,” Minimus agreed unhappily. Every day for the past month, Influx had sent some sort of message, asking, pleading, demanding for Megatron to get a reformat. 

When Minimus’s frown didn’t wane, Megatron placed a hand on his arm. “I’ll be fine, Minimus. If anyone from the news or law enforcement approaches me about it, I’ll say ‘I will not speak to you without a lawyer’.” 

Minimus looked at him curiously. “Did I teach you to say that?”

“No, but Rapido did.”

That broke the tension. Minimus gave him a satisfied, if not confident nod and stepped back to allow Megatron to enter the building. 

The inside of the Institute of Higher Programming consisted of numerous winding hallways and staircases. Soon after the acceptance letter, the school had sent Megatron a list of his classes along with their room numbers. Megatron memorized all of it.

It was a rather basic schedule with a Cybertronian History, Foundations of Science, and Linguistics class for his first year. He navigated the hallways and made his way to room 109 for History. 

Megatron was one of the last students to enter the classroom. He took one of the empty seats in the middle and watched as an old mech introduced himself as Trapetum, their teacher. 

Trapetum proceeded to drone on about the start of the expansionary age. It was quite possibly one of the most interesting things Megatron had heard. He listened and took note, completely enraptured. 

Too quickly, the lecture ended and Megatron went on to each of his other classes, hanging on to every word with delight. 

By the time he was finished for the day, he had a healthy amount readings to do at home and a cheerful anticipation for the next lessons. But as the last class was wrapped up, Megatron began to feel a restlessness that grew into a deep unease as he left the school.

The public screens mounted on buildings across the city were still playing reports, news stories and interviews about Sherma’s death. It had only been a couple hours and the incident had blown up exponentially. 

He needed to message Cassette, but not now, not with the current situation. That had the capacity to make things appear much worse for him. He needed to talk this out with someone he could trust now and Minimus wouldn’t be home until late that night.

 _Ratchet,_ his processor supplied. 

Megatron called the personal transport, preparing to make a visit to the Dead End clinic. It arrived in a timely manner and as Megatron climbed inside, he caught sight of an old and elaborately designed mech staring intently at him from across the street. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed my messing around with the timeline! Please, leave a comment below!


	12. Part 1 Chapter 12

Orion was still watching the holocaster with Ratchet when the mnemosurgeon arrived. He was lithe in frame with a friendly face. 

“Officer Pax,” he said warmly, holding out a hand. “My name’s Trepan. I’m the mnemosurgeon you sent for. It’s wonderful to meet you.”

Orion grasped the hand, and gave it a shake. “Likewise. Thank you for coming.” He turned to gesture towards Ratchet. “This is the owner of the clinic and my friend, Ratchet.”

Trepan shook his hand as well. “I’m assuming the prisoner I’m here to see is a patient of yours,” Trepan said brightly. 

“That’s right,” Ratchet replied, leading Trepan over to where Frenzy was still unconscious. “He’s experienced some very grievous injuries and we think—”

“His processor is dealing with the trauma by continually attempting to purge the memories. And during the purge, his cognitive functions are impaired,” Trepan finished. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “He can’t tell you what happened right now even if he wanted to.” 

Ratchet faltered, the impressiveness of the mnemosurgeon's deduction tripping up his words. “I—yes.” He glanced over at Orion who shrugged in response. “Can you do or suggest anything to help?” asked Ratchet. 

Trepan’s yellow optics ran over Frenzy’s frame, examining; considering. “I can access the memory, view it and tell you what I see. Then I can suppress it to re-enable cognitive function and the patient can work towards recovery from there with a therapist,” he suggested. 

Ratchet shifted uncomfortably. “Is that the only way? I’d rather not have you poking around up there without the patient’s express consent.”

Trepan’s face twisted in a display of sadness and pity. “You could wait it out, but there’s no guarantee of him recovering. And if he did, there could be permanent mental damage, though I’m sure you already knew that. I recognize your concerns, but this is honestly one of the least invasive procedures.”

Trepan calmly held out his palms. “I’m not changing anything up there. I’m simply blocking his access to the traumatic memory. When I’m finished, he’ll remember something happened, but won’t be able to recall exactly what happened. It’s completely harmless.” 

Ratchet bit at his lip, then sighed. “If that’s the only thing that’ll help.” 

Orion watched as Trepan directed Ratchet to help turn Frenzy over onto his front. Long needles then emerged from the fingertips of the mnemosurgeon’s right hand. 

He felt around the back of Frenzy’s helm with the other until he got a proper grip and slid the needles into the base of his helm; up into the processor. 

It was fascinating, in a rather unsettling fashion.

The sound of the clinic door opening caught Orion's audial, distracting him from the procedure unfolding on the medical slab.

“Ratchet, it’s Megatron. I’m sorry for visiting unannounced, but—”

Megatron made it into the room and froze, optics locked onto the proceedings in front of him. 

“Megatron, maybe you should come back later,” Orion tried, then stopped after seeing the look on Megatron’s face.

It was a visage of pure terror and panic. 

Trepan looked up at the disturbance and his face went through a series of expressions: surprise, recognition, displeasure, before it finally settled into a sly and calculating smile. 

Before Orion could get in another word, Megatron bolted out of the clinic. Orion jerked his helm over to look at Ratchet, but was only met with concern and cluelessness. 

Making a split second decision, Orion spun around and sprinted out after Megatron. 

Once he was outside, two things caught his attention. The first was a personal transport that Orion was certain belonged to the Ambus House. The second was Megatron running away from that transport, deeper into the Dead End.

“Megatron!” he shouted, but there was no response. Orion swore and gave chase. 

The grey mech proved to be shockingly fast, and the headstart he’d gotten only served to make catching him more difficult.

Megatron made a sudden turn down a side path. Failing to register the change in time, Orion missed the turn, running straight past instead. “Slag,” he spat, scrambling to a stop. As quickly as he could, he changed directions and darted down the path.

It was dark and the street was too narrow to use his altmode, but he could see Megatron. He was within reach. 

With a burst of speed, Orion caught up and threw out an arm. He caught Megatron by the back kibble and wrenched backwards, bringing both of them to a clumsy halt. 

“Where are you going?” Orion demanded. He tugged Megatron around to face him and was immediately struck by the wild look in those red optics. 

“Where are you going?” Orion repeated, and while the fear didn’t leave Megatron’s face, the panic cleared from his optics. 

“Away from here,” Megatron croaked hauntingly. “I’m getting away from here.” 

Orion nodded as if he understood completely. “How about I help you get home?” he offered gently. “Let’s walk back to your transport and you can leave. Does that sound alright?” 

Megatron's optics flitted passed him, searching for an unknown threat. “I’d like that,” he admitted. 

“Then, well do that.” Orion placed a steady hand on Megatron shoulder and began walking them back, giving a reassuring squeeze whenever Megatron slowed his pace or started to scan the area nervously. 

It wasn’t until they were almost at the transport that Megatron spoke again.

“Orion—” Megatron worried at his lip. “Orion, do you know who that mech is? What he does?”

“He’s a mnemosurgeo—”

Megatron shook his helm violently, cutting Orion off. “That’s not what I mean,” he hissed. “He’s a butcherer— taking other’s minds and striping them of everything that makes them, them. He violates your thoughts and identity, mutilates them and revels in it. Takes joy in it! He tried on me—” Megatron broke off, voice ragged. “I’ve—” he went silent. 

Orion thought of the cruel smile he’d seen stretch across Trepan’s face. He had a pretty good idea of what Megatron was referring to: Shadowplay, otherwise known as forcible personality adjustment. By the sound of Megatron’s words, he’d been a near victim of the practice. 

Orion helped Megatron into the transport. "Take care,” he said before the doors shut and the vehicle departed. 

Unnerved, Orion entered the clinic to find no traces of the mnemosurgeon. Ratchet stood next to an awake Frenzy. The medic looked distinctly disgruntled. 

“Where’s Trepan?” Orion growled.

“He left.” Ratchet crossed his arms over his chest. “I told him to wait for you to come back, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Did he at least tell you what the memory was?” 

Ratchet grunted a negative. “He claimed it was too corrupted to make out, but at least the patient's awake.” 

Orion focused his attention on Frenzy. The mech was sitting up, puzzlement painted across his faceplates. He peered up at Orion. “Is this Outpost C-12?"

Orion felt a horrid suspicion creep up. “Do you remember what happened?” 

Frenzy frowned at him. “What’re you talking 'bout? I just got up for my next shift and suddenly, I’m here! I don’t got a clue what’s happening.”

Orion almost gaped at him. This wasn’t what Trepan claimed. Frenzy should've been able to remember that something happened, but not been able to recall exactly what. He couldn't find the gap in his mind because it wasn’t just a gap. 

Everything from some point before the incident to current time was gone. The memory wasn’t blocked, it was erased. 

Orion's engines rumbled angrily as he activated his comm and called the Bureau. 

“Hello?” It was a different mech this time. 

“This is Rodion Captain, Orion Pax. I’d like to file a serious allegation against the mnemosurgeon that was assigned to aid me.” 

“May I have this mnemosurgeon’s designation?”

“Trepan,” Orion growled into the comm. 

A long silence passed. “I’m sorry,” the mech said. “There is no Trepan in our records. This individual does not work for us and never has.” 

* * *

Curled up, knees to chest in the transport, Megatron tried to clear his thoughts. But no matter what he did, he couldn't tear his mind away from that face.

The face of someone who had tried to unmake him; one who’d nearly succeeded at it. 

He’d been utterly unprepared to, quite literally, run into that part of his past—had never considered it’d be waiting for him within the bloom of security Ratchet’s clinic inspired. He’d foolishly believed it to be a distant threat. 

Megatron thought of that smile the mech had given him and shuddered. In that moment all he'd felt was visceral fear. It poisoned his systems; clouded his processor. Megatron looked out the window, every inch of his being searching for danger. 

His optics caught sight of something. Immediately, his processor conjured images of the mech, and everything around him blurred in the presence of feverish recollection. When he came to from the near stupor, he sat, wedged in the space of the transport floor. 

Now aware of his position, shame began to sting his circuitry. _I’m being irrational,_ Megatron told himself sharply. _Cowering like a newspark over something that can’t hurt me anymore. The transport is safe. The Estate is safe._

Reaching an arm back, Megatron grasped the seat and pulled himself back up. Once atop the cushion, he tensed his limbs, making himself to sit upright and resisting the urge to fold in on himself. 

The rest of the ride dragged on, seemingly passing slower as time ticked past. While Megatron had forced his body to still, his systems remained alert, throwing the most insignificant details of information at him out of stress. 

By the end of the ride, Megatron was painfully aware of every Cybertronian he’d seen pass, the movements of countless other transports and the shape of every building. 

A call rang his comm. Ratchet. Megatron focused on staring straight ahead as he ignored the call. It pinged him once, twice, three more times, before dropping. He’d see what Ratchet wanted later. At the moment, all he wanted was the darkness of his berthroom and the blissful mindlessness of recharge.

The transport slowed to a stop, coming to park in its usual spot in front of the Estate. Megatron slid out of the vehicle, making his way into his home as he waded through a haze of alerts from his risk evaluator. 

_Just a little further,_ he thought dazedly. He took the first step onto the stairs, bracing a hand on the banister. _Soon I can recharge and deal with this tomorrow._

“Megatron, that you?” 

Nickel rolled out of the dining room, the usual grumpy slant of her lips firmly in place. Megatron turned his helm to look her in the optics. He knew he looked troubled; could feel the tightness in his face where he was trying to flatten his expression. 

Nickel’s frown deepened with concern. “You alright there? You look awful.” 

Megatron felt a flash of humor at the minibot’s bluntness, but it disappeared as fast as it had arrived, drowning beneath a steady wave of consternation and agitated systems.

He considered giving Nickel a smile, but dismissed the idea. Whatever pitiful thing he’d be able to pull from his face would be far from convincing.

“I’m fine, Nickel,” Megatron managed to say. “I simply need to be left alone right now.” 

He turned away and began climbing the stairs, the feel of Nickel’s optics still on his back. 

“Do you want me to bring you up some fuel?” Nickel called. Megatron reset his optics with surprise. Nickel did her job as a servant but never outright offered bring anyone anything. He supposed it was testament to how worn out he must have appeared. 

“No, but thank you,” Megatron said. He pulled himself up the rest of the staircase, slowly but steadily making his way to his berthroom. With a breath of relief, he pushed the doors open and entered the dark room. 

The extremely dark room. He couldn’t remember it ever being this dark. The doors swung shut behind Megatron as he looked over to the window paneled wall. The shutters were closed, blocking out the city lights. 

_Curious. No one ever closes the shutters,_ Megatron thought. It was so very dark, but that was fine. Megatron was made for the dark; his optics functioned best in the dark. 

An irritated hiss left Megatron as his risk evaluator grew more insistent. Alerts screamed at him, attempting to overwhelm and induce a response.

Megatron scrubbed a hand down his face in frustration. They should have been less incessant now that he was out of the open. He was safe and yet his systems still wouldn’t calm down. 

Recharge. Recharge would, if not fix things, settle his systems enough to decide what to do next. Megatron trudged over towards the berth, pausing once he reached its side. Sweet unconsciousness was so close. 

Something heavy and solid slammed hard into the juncture of Megatron’s neck and shoulder. He cried out in pain and surprise as the thing slid over the front of his chest and something Megatron abruptly recognized as a body, landed on his shoulders.

There was a yank, a sudden shift of weight, and Megatron found himself toppling down. But with a quick twist from his attacker, Megatron landed on his back in the berth. With dread, Megatron realized that It had softened the impact, but muted the noise that would’ve occurred had he fallen to the floor.

A wad of mesh was stuffed deep into his mouth, stopping him from yelling—a gag. 

No one would hear. 

Unbelievably quick, two magna clamps were shoved over Megatron’s wrists, trapping him against the berth. The mech shoved a knee into Megatron’s abdomen, and leaned his weight into it, trying to subdue his victim further. 

Frantically, Megatron kicked up, trying to dislodge his attacker. The mech jabbed his knee down. Megatron gasped in pain and in that window of distraction, the mech fastened two more magna clamps onto Megatron, one on each leg. 

The mech lifted himself, staring down at the prisoner tied to the berth and allowing Megatron to get a full look at his attacker. 

He was tall and built like a fighter— large, streamlined and compact with thick, sturdy plating. He had a pitch black paint job, mask and a visor that appeared to be modded not to give off light. 

Megatron thrashed violently, pulling against the restraints to no avail. Still, he kept fighting; jerking his arms and legs.

The mech watched him impassively, and in those expressionless features, Megatron found a terrifying set of facts. 

Rewind and Dominus were gone on their research trip.

Minimus was at a meeting and wouldn’t be home until much later.

Megatron had told Nickel he wished to be left alone and denied her offer bring him dinner.

He was alone with this mech and no one would be coming to search for him anytime soon. 

The black mech reached forward, and in a moment of frigid horror, Megatron realized he was reaching for his helm. Hot hands closed around the sides of his helmet and pulled it off. Megatron passed out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	13. Part 1 Chapter 13

It was perhaps the strangest meeting Minimus had ever attended. Every type of authority was represented: senators, justices, priests, high ranked enforcement, emirates, lower level government officials; even Nominus Prime himself was in attendance. 

But instead of beginning a dialogue that expanded upon the implications of Sherma's murder and what that meant for the government going forward, everyone was sat down for something reminiscent of a funeral. 

Everyone except the senators. They'd all retreated into a different room for some undisclosed reason. 

"And may his spark rest safely in the hands of Primus," declared the priest leading the makeshift ceremony. 

Minimus restrained himself from shifting in his seat. It wasn't that he was adverse to Sherma receiving the proper respects of a funeral. The Senator had been a good and honorable mech. The problem was the timing.

They should've been conducting an actual meeting and held a better planned funeral later. 

Glancing to his side, Minimus got a good look at Tyrest. While the Chief Justice was outwardly composed, Minimus could see the subtle signs of irritation on his superior.

He likely had the same objections as Minimus. 

"And now," the priest announced. "I ask you all to join me in a moment of silence for our fallen brother."

As requested, a hush fell over the audience. A lengthy amount of time later, the priest spoke once more.

"Thank you." The priest sat down, but the crowd stayed silent.

"Is it over then?" Came the whisper of some unnamed individual, asking what everyone was wondering, but reframed from voicing out of propriety.

The question was answered in the form of the senators returning to the room. Instead of sitting, the group broke apart, scattering across the room to talk to one another and to other officials that remained seated. 

It was permission to follow and soon, everyone was standing and starting to mingle. 

Minimus got the impression there would be no productivity tonight. He watched as Tyrest stood up and walked towards the exit without so much as a word, frustration simmering at the edges of his EM field. 

Minimus checked his chronometer. The gathering was supposed to last another three hours. He was considering following Tyrest's lead and going home, when he felt someone approach. 

He looked to see Alpha Trion with Shockwave at his side.

"Greetings, Ultra Magnus," Alpha Trion said. "I hope you are doing well."

Minimus gave Alpha Trion a polite nod, staunchly ignoring Shockwave's presence. "As well as I can be. How are you, Record Keeper?" 

"Quite well, thank you. Though admittedly, I find meetings with the senators exhausting." He cast an amused glance towards Shockwave, but Minimus refused to do the same. He hadn't spoken to Shockwave since the office confrontation after he'd found out the senator was responsible for the bonding order. 

"You were with the senators?" Minimus asked. 

Alpha Trion's official position was Record Keeper. It was a strange title in that it wasn't necessarily a political one. However, Alpha Trion had been entangled in the inner workings of the government for so long, many treated him like a senator.

He had most of the same privileges, and with the influence he'd incurred over millennia, was arguably more powerful than any of the actual senators. 

"Yes, I simply popped in to see what was going on," Alpha Trion explained. "It's a shame what they decided, especially for your conjunx." 

Minimus got the sudden urge to comm Megatron. "What about my conjunx?" He asked cautiously. 

Alpha Trion looked at him sympathetically. "He's attending the Institute of Higher Programming, correct?"

Minimus nodded.

"Ah, I thought that was him! I caught sight of him this evening from across the street. He was just leaving by transport." Alpha Trion's optics dimmed slightly as if he was lost in thought. "He's a very…interesting Cybertronian, shall we say. He caught my attention right away." 

"He is," Minimus agreed hesitantly, certain there was some double meaning to the Record Keeper's words. "But that doesn't explain your earlier statement.”

The faraway look left Alpha Trion's optics. "Proteus called a private hearing to restate his proposal on banning Cold Constructs from educational institutions." 

"Directly after Sherma's dea-" Minimus stopped short, already seeing the answer. Sherma was one of the senators that voted against the policy. Holding a vote after his death was a tactical choice, as distasteful as it was.

"That still doesn't make sense," Minimus argued, tone bordering on desperate disbelief. "The policy lost by one vote last time. Assuming everyone voted the same way, losing Sherma only results in a tie." 

"Not with the addition of Senator Ratbat," Shockwave said gruffly.

 _New Senator?_ It made sense for there to be a replacement for Sherma, but adding new Senate members took time, documentation, notification. There was no legal way for a Senator to be sworn in so fast. It had been less than a day since Sherma's death. 

"They can't," Minimus objected.

"They already did," Alpha Trion said curtly. "And they passed the policy. All Cold Constructed mechanisms are prohibited from attending and teaching at learning institutions, with the exception of military and aerial academies. This also extends to internships unrelated to a mech's legal function. However, institutions can still hire on Cold Constructs for non-educational related labor, such as janitorial work. It goes into effect immediately."

"Which is why I want to ask you a favor, Minimus," Shockwave chimed in. 

The sudden heat of indignation cut through Minimus's dismay. He scowled at Shockwave. 

"There is not much I am willing to offer you, Senator," Minimus said coldly. "And please, address me by my proper title. Familiarity is reserved for friends of the Ambus House." 

Shockwave looked as though he wanted to protest, but swallowed his words, and instead, inclined his helm. "My apologies, Ultra Magnus," he said. "I understand you're still angry with me, but know I'll always be an ally of the Ambus House." 

They stared at each other, gazes locked before Minimus finally relented.

"Your request?" 

Shockwave looked him directly in the optics. "I've found a certain loophole regarding the selection of Emirates and so, I propose I take your conjunx to Kaon and-"

"No," Minimus interrupted.

Shockwave tried for an easy smile. "I haven't even finished," he said good naturedly, but Minimus could hear the strain in his voice. Shockwave lowered his volume to a whisper. "Ultra Magnus, he's already published more pieces and this new law will stir discontent. We need to get him better acquainted with his people and strike while the iron's hot. Please, this is why you bonded with him."

Minimus hadn't been aware that Megatron published anything since their bonding. The surprise of that however, was paltry in comparison to his ire.

Minimus stalked closer to Shockwave, stopping just before their bodies brushed together. "The reason we bonded was your manipulations," he hissed, voice low enough not to draw attention. "And you have the gall to tell me and my conjunx what to do to secure your agenda?" 

Minimus sniffed disdainfully. "I need to go home and tell Megatron that he, and roughly forty percent of the population will no longer be allowed in learning institutions, due to the prejudiced whims of a few individuals. So please, excuse me, Senator."

Turning away, Minimus nodded to Alpha Trion. "Have a lovely night, Record Keeper."

"Same to you," said Alpha Trion. Minimus left, still hours earlier than the meeting was scheduled to end. 

Shockwave sighed softly before turning to face Alpha Trion. "Do I still have your support in this endeavor, Record Keeper?"

Alpha Trion smiled faintly. "I'll sign the ordinance documents if that's what you are asking."

"Thank you."

Alpha Trion hummed in acknowledgement. "A word of advice, Shockwave. Contact the head of the Ambus House. I'm sure he will be thrilled at the prospect of a house member ascending to Emirate, and being trained for the position by a senator no less." 

"I already did." Shockwave looked to where Minimus had been with resignation. "I hope our friendship isn't completely ruined over this. I quite like Minimus." 

Alpha Trion merely chuckled. 

* * *

  
  


Megatron onlined slowly. His systems were sluggish; reluctant to respond.

As his consciousness returned and system reports started to pour in, Megatron became aware of that fact that something was wrong.

His frame felt wrong—more specifically, his chassis. It felt like there was something moving in there, shifting around and pinching his insides.

Something moved and a rush of queasiness coiled around his internals. His helmet was off. His chest plates were open.

Awareness and the memories that came with slammed into him with the swiftness and strength of a sludgehammer.

Megatron’s optics snapped online, gracing him to the sight of his attacker bent over him, forearms deep inside his chest cavity.

A soft squelch sounded. Automatically, Megatron's optics glanced downwards and the queasiness turned to outright, nauseating revulsion. 

The interior of his chest around the light of his spark chamber was a mess of trimmed circuitry and fuel lines that definitely weren't supposed to be so close to the surface.

He could see where some lines had been cut, then cauterized. Smoke wafted up from the ends, filling his olfactory receptor with foul fumes. Even burnt, some of the fuel lines bled sluggishly, dripping warm purple liquid. He could feel it sliding down exposed components and down further, into parts of him he hadn't known could get wet. 

The mech tweaked something and a thin stream of energon sprayed upwards, catching the black mech in the face. He grunted while Megatron gagged. 

The mesh in his mouth rubbed roughly against his glossa. His mouth moved awkwardly around it, turning the gagging into an odd noise of discomfort. 

Megatron tried to lift his helm. As he did, he felt a weakness in his neck and the connection wobbled in place. 

His helm fell back, cheek against the berth. There was no support or sensation in the area. He tried again, only to feel the base of his neck move around uselessly in the socket. 

Megatron could hear the metal grinding, failing to catch on anything. 

His helm was halfway detached from his body. Another gag left him and the black mech grunted again, sounding irritated. 

Megatron looked down a second time. The mech was working to disconnect everything from his spark chamber. Spindly digits glided lightly down the chamber's sides. 

Then, the mech closed his entire hand over the organ and began to force it upwards.

Megatron watched, the realization that the lack of pain was likely due to him having been drugged, secondary to the repulsion and fear that filled every inch of his body. 

"Megatron?" 

Both occupants of the room looked up at the voice filtering through the closed doors. _Nickel's voice,_ Megatron thought wildly.

He attempted to yell, but all that escaped the gag was a muffled whine. The black mech slapped a hand over Megatron's mouth for good measure and his helm bobbed loosely in place with the force of the movement. The energon coating the hand smeared across Megatron's jaw. 

"I know you said you wanted to be left alone, but I brought you some energon anyway," Nickel continued. "Fueling will help with whatever funk you're in."

Megatron bucked and the mech pushed down harder.

"Silent treatment?" Nickel said in response to the quiet. "I'll leave it out here for you then." 

Megatron flailed frantically, desperately hoping Nickel would hear something. 

Instead, the muted but distinct bumps of Nickel rolling away from the room could be heard. 

With every bump, more hopelessness washed over Megatron. He'd offlined his optics despairingly, when suddenly, Nickel spoke again. 

"Minimus, you're home early."

Megatron's vision came back in time to see the mech's optics widen behind the optical visor. 

Minimus's greeting to Nickel floated through the doors, along with heavy footsteps.

The black mech scrambled off Megatron, but it was too late. The doors were thrown open, the lights turned on, and Minimus, in that imposing armor stepped into the room. 

Relief surged through Megatron at the sight of his conjunx. There was a moment of stillness; of shock for all parties. 

Understanding then dawned on Minimus's face which contorted into a furious snarl. Out of his subspace, Minimus pulled out a voltaic baton and almost too fast for a Cybertronian of his size, charged forward. 

The mech darted to the side, narrowly avoiding Minimus's grasp. Without hesitating, he dashed towards the shuttered windows. 

Megatron wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it wasn't the mech jumping through the windows, shutters and all. The glass shattered, spraying everywhere, and the mech dropped from sight.

Minimus ran to the window, trying to keep sight of the intruder. He pressed a digit to the side of his helm and began to speak into his comm. 

"This is the Ultra Magnus requesting police presence at the Iaconian Ambus Estate, immediately. There's been a break-in and assault and the suspect—black plated, third size class, minimal kibble, class unknown—has run from the scene by pede." 

Minimus pulled away from the broken window panel and hurried over to Megatron. His optics traveled down to the mess of Megatron's chest, and a look of disgust passed over his face. But thankfully, he did not stare long.

He carefully shut his conjunx's chest plates, then pulled out the gag.

"Are you alright?" Minimus asked as he began to remove the magna clamps from Megatron's limbs.

Megatron grunted with uncertainty as his optics focused on where the mech had broken through the window. Nausea rolled over him. 

"Primus, your neck," Minimus muttered when he tried to sit Megatron up, only for the grey mech's helm to loll brokenly at a shoulder, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. 

"Maybe you should lie back down until a medic examines that," Minimus suggested. 

Minimus helped him spin so he'd be able to stretch lengthwise across the berth. But as they shifted, both caught sight of something in the corner of the room they'd failed to notice in the dark. 

Pressed up against the wall was a brand new frame. It was tall and slim with thin, glossy silver and red plating and delicate facial features. 

It was a gorgeous and empty Intellectual class frame, ready for a spark and processor to be transplanted inside—ready for someone to be reformatted. 

Megatron stared at it. He could feel where his spark chamber had almost been removed. He'd nearly been reformatted.

He looked at the beautiful, sleek frame and imagined waking up in it. He imagined the distress and confusion he would've felt—the constant paranoia of wondering if his processor had been tampered with during the transplant. 

Megatron brought a shaky hand up to feel at his helm. His sensory panels fluttered lightly at his own touch and spread, blooming like a flower. The helmet had been removed but his helm was unopened; his processor unexposed and untouched. 

Megatron heaved a sigh of relief, but the near reformat came back to mind. The idea of the utter disconnection and unfamiliarity with his body—not knowing his body—was unpleasant. 

The nausea grew stronger. Megatron could feel Minimus rubbing his back.

"Please, lay back," Minimus coaxed.

Megatron didn't move. 

_I was almost forcibly reformatted._

The thought was truly sobering. He'd almost received a life threatening surgical procedure on his berth. Conducted by an unknown person with unknown medical training. In an unsterilized room. Against his will. 

The nausea boiled over. 

Megatron leaned towards the berth's edge. His helm pitched forward, dangling grotesquely; his chin bouncing against the top of his chest. Megatron bent over the side of the berth and purged his fuel tank all over Minimus's pedes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you had a good read!


	14. Part 1 Chapter 14

Megatron blinked down hazily at the energon pooled on the floor and splattering Minimus pedes. The center of the puddle of half-processed fuel was congealed in energon bathed chunks. Megatron watched the liquid of the mess as it slowly spread out, glistening under the room’s lightning. 

“M’sorry,” he slurred, then wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. The energon smeared pedes shifted, and then there was a firm grip on Megatron’s chin. Minimus pulled Megatron back up, using his handhold to keep the grey mech’s helm steady. 

“It’s not your fault,” Minimus told him as he maneuvered Megatron to rest on his back in the berth. 

Megatron grunted, having difficulty finding the right words. His body felt even slower now, like it was moving through thick oil. Nothing was responding normally. One moment he was staring into Minimus’s concerned features, and the next, his conjunx suddenly wasn’t there.

Megatron reset his optics. Someone was touching his neck. 

“Don’t try to move or you’ll hurt yourself,” Nickel said. She rooted around in a container for something.

“When did you get here?” 

Nickel didn’t look up from her search. “About ten minutes ago. You were kinda out of it. I’m guessing whatever you were given to dull your pain receptors has a depressive effect on your processor—probably has a stronger effect the longer it's in you." 

“Oh,” Megatron murmured, trying to understand what Nickel just said. He couldn’t think clearly; couldn’t make sense of the words other than the basic premise of ‘drug’. After awhile he gave up, instead focusing on what he could glean from the interaction.

“Knew you weren’t just Janitorial,” he crowed, his speech still slurred.

Nickel pulled some tool out of the box, stuck in the area under his neck and twisted. There was a sharp pop. She removed the tool, inserted it in the same space from the other side and repeated the motion. There was another pop and Megatron could feel a sense of stability return in his neck.

“Can’t let sleeping turbofoxes lie, hmm?” she grumbled. “Can’t believe you’re coherent enough to ask that.” 

Megatron hummed, still not completely understanding. While Nickel continued working on his neck, Megatron let his optics move around the room, trying to figure out where his conjunx had gone. When he made the mistake of tilting his helm, Nickel slapped his arm reprimandingly. 

“I’m not done,” she huffed. “Stay still or you’ll disconnect it again.” 

The door to the wash rack opened. Minimus walked out, pedes clean. Once he was at the berth side, he cast a worried glance down at Megatron. “How is he doing?” he asked Nickel.

Nickel shrugged. “Drugged mostly. Think the effects are getting worse. I’ve almost got his neck reconnected, but the clipped fuel lines are ruined. He’ll need replacements. I’m assuming you called an actual hospital.” 

“Iacon Medical,” Minimus confirmed. “They’re sending an ambulance.” 

The word ambulance pierced through the drug created haze, but just as quickly, he fell back into the fog. 

He continously slipped in and out of consciousness. The first time he became aware again, he was on some flat surface that was moving out of the Estate—a gurney, he realized. He could see Minimus following, talking to an enforcer while walking. 

The second time, he was still moving, but it was a different kind of motion—more fluid. His surroundings were narrower. He turned his helm. Minimus sat next to him, elbows resting on his thighs.

Megatron licked his lips, and the next sentence escaped from him without permission. “Didja know the hospetel…the hospitals—didja know they’ll refuse service?” 

Minimus frowned at him. “There’s no need to worry about that. We’re in the ambulance.” 

“They’ll refuse they can. Even at—at death’s door,” Megatron rambled. “Leaker, disposable, as long as they...they decided you aren’t worth nothing.” 

Minimus gently took his hand. Megatron quieted and fell unconscious.

The third and final time he awoke, his mind was clear. He lay on a medical slab, bathed in the harsh lighting of a hospital. He flexed his digits and found his left hand constrained. Sitting in a chair next to the slab was Minimus, still holding his hand. 

The movement caught Minimus’s attention. He gave Megatron a onceover, then squeezed his hand. “How are you feeling?” 

“Lucid,” said Megatron.

Minimus nodded. “They flushed the substance out of your systems after finishing replacing your fuel lines.” 

Megatron brushed a hand over his chest. He couldn’t feel any looseness or pain, but the memory of mangled, bleeding tubes and pungent smoke persisted. He viciously forced the thought away and focused on Minimus. 

His conjunx was staring down at their clasped hands, idly stroking this thumb over Megatron’s knuckles. 

“Did they catch him?” Megatron asked quietly. 

Minimus shook his helm. “No, but it’s only been around five hours.”

Megatron checked his chronometer. It was in the early hours of the morning, barely passed the threshold of night. 

“Ambus?” 

Megatron looked over to see a nurse pushing aside the privacy curtain.

“That’s us,” Minimus said, sitting a little stiffer. The nurse nodded and came closer, letting the curtain fall back into place behind him. 

“The doctor says we can discharge you,” the nurse announced. “The damage to your chest interior was clean, all things considered. Everything’s back where it should be and in working order. There don’t seem to be any lingering effects from the drug, but if you start to experience haziness or chronic fatigue, please contact us.” The nurse handed Minimus the discharge papers and turned back to Megatron.

“Do you need me to call assistance to help you move to the transport?” 

“No,” Megatron said decisively. “I can walk.” 

Minimus gave him a strange look, but the nurse accepted the decision with a curt nod and left back through the curtain. 

Megatron’s vents heaved as he tried to slide himself off the medical slab. His pedes touched the ground, but as he attempted to shift his weight, his legs buckled. Megatron caught the edge of the slab as Minimus rushed forward to balance him. Minimus tried to lower him back onto the slab, but Megatron grabbed at his chest insistently.

“Help me stand,” Megatron gritted out.

“Megatron-”

“I said, help me stand,” Megatron snapped. 

The uncertainty didn't leave Minimus's optics, but he did as he was asked and helped Megatron up, letting him lean against his frame for support. 

Megatron grunted. He stood still a moment, allowing his legs to adjust. When his limbs stopped shaking and no longer felt like jelly, he eased himself off of Minimus. 

As he did, his conjunx kept his arms reached out, prepared for a sudden tumble. 

"I can walk," Megatron repeated.

Minimus nodded, but kept close to his side as they began their slow trek out of the hospital. Once they reached the waiting room, Minimus directed Megatron to sit in one of the chairs while he exchanged a few short words with the nurse at the front desk.

"What now?" Megatron asked when Minimus returned to his side, finished with signing additional discharge documents. 

"We go home where you can rest more." 

Megatron imagined returning to their berth room and objections began to form. His hands clenched against the chair arm. "Won't I need to give an enforcement report?"

"Yes," Minimus admitted slowly, "eventually. But now might not be the best course of action for your well-being."

"I want to do it now," Megatron insisted. Anything to avoid returning to the berth room. 

Minimus's face twitched into something of a grimace. "Megatron, I don't—"

"Please." Megatron's voice cracked at the end of the softly spoken word. He winced with embarrassment. 

Minimus gave in. "Alright, but afterwards we're going straight home."

The next few hours were a blur for Megatron. Minimus brought him down to the station where he recounted the attack to an officer. The report was recorded and filed and afterwards, just like Minimus had said, they traveled back to the Estate. 

By the time they arrived, the vivid light of late morning shown brightly. 

They drifted into the living room where Megatron collapsed onto the couch, helm in hands. 

With a gentle tone, as if soothing a frightened animal, Minimus assured him he'd be back—having to take care of something in another room.

The last time Minimus had used that tone was on their bonding night when promsing him he wouldn’t be forced into interface. Megatron nodded, somehow both thankful for and resentful of the approach. 

Minimus left the room, leaving Megatron to his thoughts. He wanted Minimus to treat him normally, but he wasn't foolish enough to even trick himself into thinking there was an iota of normality in this situation. 

The idea of going upstairs, much less entering the berth room made his vents quicken. And that notion was the doorway to unpleasant memories. 

_Black plating and a hand pressed over his mouth, the smell and sight of his own mutilated insides, gut wrenching hopelessness._

Nickel rolled into the room, thankfully distracting him from that train of thought. Megatron kept his helm buried in his hands and once Nickel was close enough, she hesitantly tapped his leg to get his attention.

Hesitantly. It was a word he'd never have considered applying to Nickel. He hated it. 

Megatron looked down at her, resigned features inviting her to speak. 

"Do you need anything?"

It was such a simple question; one filled with kindness and good intentions. It was also unlike the gruff and irritable personality of the minibot. She was treading lightly around him, ready to back off at the slightest sign of distress. 

The behavior pricked at Megatron uncomfortably. 

“It’s almost time for school,” he said, ignoring Nickel’s question entirely. Her audial antennae flicked back as her face scrunched up with bewilderment. 

“Probably?” she offered, unsure. “Most schools start in the morning.” 

Megatron nodded, the urgent want for normalcy tainting his mind. “I should go.”

“To where...school?” 

Megatron stood up, forcing Nickel to move back. “No, no you are not going anywhere,” Nickel argued. “What is wrong with you? You just got out of the hospital!”

“I can’t fall behind, it’s only the second day,” Megatron shot back. Somewhere in his mind, he knew what he said made no sense, was even careless; witless. But the prospect of burying the memories of the night below even something as short as a school day, was feverishly tempting. 

Nickel glared up at him with determination and disbelief. “I think they’ll make an allowance for a literal medical emergency, not to mention the crime,” she snapped. 

Megatron took another step forward. He wobbled slightly, while his size made the minibot roll back to avoid being shoved.

“I’m going,” he declared. Nickel’s scowl deepened. She opened her mouth to protest.

“You can’t,” came Minimus’s voice. He entered the room with his arms folded behind his back; his body position rigid and formal. “As of last night, a new law was passed. All Cybertronians of cold constructed origin are prohibited from attending educational facilities or internships unrelated to their legal function.” 

The news was somehow not surprising. Megatron, to some degree, had always believed his current situation to be too good for permanency. A respectful conjunx, higher class, safe home, and education was more than their society would allow of someone born into the lower classes. 

And in the end, he’d been proven right. In less than one day, Megatron had been stripped of his sense of security within the Estate and his access to an education.

No, it wasn't a surprise, but it was a keen loss. Megatron let his frame drop back down to the couch. A feeling stirred in his spark, too tepid to be anger and not dismal enough for sorrow. 

Distantly, he heard Nickel whisper to Minimus. “Don’t just stand there,” she hissed. “The last person he needs right now is the Ultra Magnus.” 

Megatron felt Minimus sit beside him. Then slowly, he felt digits lightly touching his hand, requesting permission. Megatron responded by lacing their digits together. 

They sat there in silence, relaxing in the presence of one another.

That night, Megatron recharged on the couch. Minimus hadn't protested, and instead, stayed with him in the living room. 

Minimus let his conjunx take the entirety of the bigger couch while he recharged on floor. The other sofa was too small for his armored form to lay down comfortably. The image of Minimus, curled up at the base of the couch reminded Megatron of a loyal turbofox, but the kindness of the gesture wasn't lost on him. 

The next few days, Megatron spent wading through a mixture of emotions he couldn't decipher. And so he did what he always did when trying to work through his thoughts: he wrote. 

Journaling, treaties, poetry, random sprawling ideas. He wrote constantly, although avoiding the forum on Minimus's request after telling him of his decepticon correspondence. Megatron wrote and wrote, but never alone.

During the day, he made sure to never be more than a room away from one of the servants. He mainly kept to the dining and living rooms, both of which had thinner walls and multiple, open exits. 

When Minimus came home, Megatron stayed close, with the exception of their berth room. He couldn't bring himself to enter that place. 

At night he would return to the couch. Often, Minimus would follow him in and try to coax him to berth, but Megatron would always refuse. 

And with every refusal, Minimus would insist on staying downstairs with him. After one more presumably unpleasant night on the floor, Minimus changed up his positioning. Sometimes he'd recharge sitting upright in the loveseat. Others times he'd remove his armor to be able to lay back on the smaller couch. 

Regardless, both of their quality of recharge suffered. Megatron didn't have trouble with his sleeping surface. He'd recharged in far more uncomfortable places as a miner. The night purges however, woke him frequently.

The images and sounds and smells of his night terrors haunted him, even in his waking moments. 

He never deliberately avoided recharge, but after waking up shuddering and gasping for cool air, falling back into recharge wasn't easy. 

Minimus on the other hand, seemed unused to resting on anything other than a berth. At night, Megatron could hear him shifting, unsuccessfully trying to find a comfortable position.

More than once Megatron had tried to convince Minimus to return to the berth room for recharge. Nothing he said worked. And so, they endured the cycle of recharge deprivation they'd unintentionally, and stubbornly created. 

It was in the beginning of the third week of this that Megatron assumed his conjunx had hit a breaking point. That evening when he returned from work, Minimus brought Megatron into an Estate room he'd never been in.

It was extremely spacious with padded flooring, punching dummies and a few other types of equipment. 

"I'm going to teach you to fight," Minimus said in a tone that brokered no argument. 

Impactor had attempted to do the same in the past. But each time, Megatron had brushed him off, content with pacifism. 

_And what good has pacifism done me?_

The only time he'd really fought was during the riot on C-12.

 _If I can call it that,_ Megatron thought with a shudder. In a moment of desperate, uncoordinated violence, he'd killed someone. Granted, the mech had been trying to kill him, but Megatron often wondered if it could've happened differently. 

With no objections, he settled himself in for a lesson. 

The first thing Minimus showed him was how to throw a proper punch. He demonstrated once, then manually folded Megatron's hand into a correct fist. 

He walked him through the motion until Megatron grew more comfortable with it. The next thing Minimus taught him was the basics of being in close quarters with an opponent. 

"If I get up close enough to grab you, you want to put distance between us as soon as possible, especially if there are knives involved," Minimus explained. 

"Yes, adjust your grip, bring it closer to my neck." 

Megatron followed Minimus’s instructions, finding better leverage for keeping him at bay. He knew it would be significantly harder with an attacker actually trying to get closer. 

"And don't be afraid to use your size against someone," Minimus added. 

By the end of the lesson, Megatron had a decent grasp on basic strikes and a general idea of how to to escape someone’s grip. 

He also saw the lesson for what it was: a hopeful attempt to strengthening his sense of safety.

Sure enough, that night Minimus asked if he'd be willing to come to the berth room. He wasn't, and they spent another rest cycle in the living room. 

The next morning, before Minimus set off for work, the two of them sat down in the dining room for breakfast. Megatron sat at one end of the table, and Minimus the other.

While the distance was considerable, Megatron could see the pallor of his conjunx's optics. Dark red had paled into an unhealthy pink, and not yet dressed in his armor, Minimus's small form slumped slightly against the table. 

All signs of exhaustion. 

Megatron knew he didn't look much better, but the guilt of dragging his conjunx into this with him was suffocating. Before he could try to persuade Minimus to use the berth again, Roll came into the room.

"Sirs, you have a visitor," he announced. 

Minimus rubbed at his face. "Thank you, Roll. You can send them in." 

Roll nodded and left. Seconds later, Fortis Ambus appeared. Minimus sat up straighter. "Fortis. We weren't expecting you. Please, have a seat."

Megatron glanced at Minimus. As polite as the words were, he could hear the strain in his conjunx's voice. 

Fortis took one of the chairs on the side and gave them both a warm smile. "Yes, I'm terribly sorry for visiting unannounced, but I wanted to check up on you two. I know things can't have been easy after that attack."

"We're fine," Minimus said. A blatant lie. Fortis just hummed and gave both of them a slow onceover. 

"Fortis—" Minimus tried, but the Head of the Ambus House cut him off. 

"Isn't it almost time for you to leave for work, Minimus?" Fortis asked. "Perhaps you should go don your armor."

Minimus stared at him a moment before pushing back his chair and standing up. He made his way to the doorway then stopped, looking back.

"Go on," Fortis wheedled. "Your conjunx and I are just going to have a chat." 

Minimus's gaze flicked over to Megatron: inquiring. Megatron nodded. Minimus inclined his helm in return and exited the dining room. 

Shifting in his chair, Fortis focused his attention on Megatron.

"Are you here to make me get a reformat?" Megatron asked before Fortis could speak.

Fortis's yellow optics reset with surprise. "No. I don't particularly care if you don't have one."

"Your creation seems to think otherwise." 

"Influx?" Fortis made a vague gesture with his hand. "Yes, Minimus did call me about that. I suppose that's why he's a little miffed at me." 

"Because you won't punish your creation," Megatron concluded bitterly. 

"I don't know for sure if Influx is the culprit."

At Megatron's disbelieving stare, Fortis smiled apologetically. "Megatron, you are nothing like a Noble conjunx should be, nor is Minimus training you to resemble one. You aren't submissive, gentle, pretty, thoughtless, or well versed in manners, and tthat scares many members of the Ambus house. Influx was the most directly vocal about wanting you to be reformatted with his letters, but honestly, anyone from the house could've done it. However, there's no paper trail of someone hiring any... _services_ like that. There's simply no evidence at all." 

"But it was an Ambus House member?"

"Oh, certainly!" Fortis agreed. "To pull off a crime like that, the perpetrator must've been familiar with the Estate security as well as Minimus's schedule. I have no doubt about that." 

Megatron clenched his hands under the table. He hadn't been expecting to get justice, but there'd been some irrational hope for it. 

"Ah, don't look so sad," Fortis said, tone bordering on humor. "I come bearing good news as well." 

Megatron eyed him curiously. 

"Senator Shockwave contacted me with an exciting offer. He wants to make you an emirate."

"Emirate?" Megatron choked out. 

"Well, more accurately, he wants to train you to be one, but from my understanding, there's a ruling called the Territory Law that can be enacted to promote you to the office."

Megatron remembered Senator Shockwave from his bonding ceremony. The senator had been amiable towards him, if a little pushy. Megatron also knew the senator was responsible for his forced conjunxing and removal from outpost C-12. Decimus had mentioned him several times. 

"And you want me to take the offer?" Megatron asked, suspicious. Fortis after all, had just finished telling him what was expected of Noble conjunxes. 

"Of course I want you to take it." Fortis put a hand to his chest. "My job as the head of house is to do what's most beneficial for the Ambus House. A house member holding a political position is absolutely what I want." 

Fortis gave him a sly look. "May I ask you a rather personal question?"

Megatron nodded cautiously.

"Are you angry?" 

Megatron paused to think. Was he angry? Was that what the emotion rolling in his tanks was? 

"I'm not sure," he admitted. 

"A shame," Fortis lamented with a small sigh. "Anger is an excellent motivator. I think the Senate forgets that sometimes. They believe it to be fickle, running out sooner rather than later." 

Fortis chuckled. "They're severely underestimating how anger sticks to someone, just as they're underestimating how angry this new education policy is going to make the populace. Forty percent of our population is cold constructed, not to mention their forged loved ones. Those are the mechs in your corner, Megatron." 

_In my corner?_ Megatron thought. He had a guess as to what Fortis was referring to. 

"That deception movement of your's," Fortis said, confirming Megatron's speculation. "It has potential. Enforcement is running an investigation on Sherma's murder and with Minimus in charge, it's as thorough as possible. They're not finding much proof to corroborate the deceptions as the killers. Soon, everyone will be forced to drop the accusation." 

With that, Fortis stood from his seat. He reached into his subspace, pulled out a small box and handed it to Megatron. 

"Just a little gift from me. Something for self-defense." 

Removing the top, Megatron inside to see a compact blaster. He looked at Fortis, shocked. 

"An AX-77," Fortis said, pride lacing his voice. "Difficult to make and even harder to find. It has its own specialized EM field, making it practically invisible in your subspace. If anyone forcibly empties your subspace, they won't be able to find, much less remove it."

When Megatron didn't move, Fortis pushed the box closer to him. "Hurry up and put it in your subspace before Minimus comes back," he whispered. "These aren't entirely legal." 

Megatron obeyed and Fortis clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll be heading out now then. Tell Minimus I wish him well, and remember how many people you have on your side."

Humming to himself, Fortis walked out of the room. Megatron could hear when the front door closed, indicating he'd left the Estate. 

"Megatron?" 

Megatron looked over. Minimus was back, armored and brows furrowed. 

"I'm alright," Megatron assured him. "Have a good day at work." 

With Minimus gone, Megatron considered Fortis's words. He had no doubts about Shockwave's offer. He'd accept that as soon as possible. 

He picked up his datapad. He would return to the forum as soon as the decepticons were officially cleared. For now, he had his writing. 

Pulling up one of the poems he'd recently written, Megatron read aloud to himself. 

Too often I've dreamt of a thousand ends 

Not of lives taken, but offered

A thousands ends of pain and sorrow

A thousand beginnings of lives worth living

Paid for with the blood of all

Deep within, Megatron felt a low simmer of anger. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of part 1! Hope you enjoyed!


	15. Part 2 Chapter 1

It had been a slow day at the Rodion enforcement station. Orion lazily flipped through the documents in front of him.

Springarm usually manned the front desk, but the officer was out on a patrol with Wheelarch. Orion had taken on the job in his absence. 

Orion flipped through the documents again, more out of boredom than actually reading anything. 

There was so much more that he could do in place of desk duty. Go on patrol, file the bi-monthly report, interview the mech that had been brought in for robbery—

"Hello?" 

Orion looked up from the documents. There was no one standing in front of him.

"Ah...down here," the voice said. 

Orion leaned over the desk. Standing behind it; barely the height of Orion's pede, was a mech. 

_Disposable class,_ Orion noted. He gave the mech as friendly of an expression as he could give from behind his battle mask. 

"Hello. What can I do for you?" 

The mech looked momentarily surprised, as if he hadn't expected Orion to acknowledge him, much less speak to him. 

_That's exactly what he was expecting,_ Orion thought somberly. He could think of more than a few officers who'd display open disdain or dismissal towards Disposables.

"Hello… ah Officer, sir. I need to report an assault…" The mech fidgeted nervously as he spoke. "...and report a missing person." 

Out of the corner of his optic, Orion saw Roller peer out from the security room doorway. There was already a grimace on his face in anticipation of what he knew Orion had to say.

Under his battle mask, the same grimace graced Orion's lips. 

"I regret to inform you that reporting the assault is the furthest I'll be able to assist you. Members of the Disposable class are not legally allowed to press charges."

The words tasted bitter in Orion's mouth, but it was the truth. 

The mech's face didn't fall. That would have required some amount of pre-existing hope. 

Instead, the resignation lining the mech's face and voice deepened. His slumped shoulders dropped lower and the fidgeting stopped with the confirmation of what he surely already knew. 

"I can still take the report," Orion offered. "It might not yield justice for you, but it could be useful information to prevent future incidents." 

"Yes Officer, sir."

The mech stumbled over his words, clearly trying to balance his nervousness with the proper respect and deference society required he show a member of a higher class. 

There was a fine line between speaking respectfully to him because he was an enforcer and exhibiting that respect out of fear of what a member of a higher class could _do_ to you.

Orion found a strong distaste for respect shown due to the latter reason. 

"Just Officer will be fine," Orion said.

"Yes, Officer," the mech replied immediately. 

Stepping out from behind the desk, Orion directed the mech to follow and led him to an interview room. 

Orion closed the door behind them. "Go ahead and take a seat," he told the mech, pointing to the table in the center of the small room with a chair on either side. 

The mech obeyed. Orion took the chair across the table and brought out a datapad to take the report. The diminutive size of the mech forced Orion to lean over the table to see him while simultaneously trying not to loom over the much smaller Cybertronian. 

"Before anything, I'll need some basic identification information. May I have your designation?" 

"1220 of Polyhex."

Orion looked up. "1220 is your designation?"

The mech looked taken aback; then began to squirm nervously. "It's my batch number. I'm sorry, I assumed that's what you wanted, Officer sir. I—"

"It's fine," Orion said, cutting off the mech's frantic rush of words. "I'm aware some Disposables don't have a legal designation. I'll use your batch number in the report, but is there a name you'd like me to refer to you with?" 

The mech reset his optics in surprise, then scurried to answer. "My owner sometimes calls me Dreck." 

Orion suppressed a grimace. He supposed he'd heard worse names. 

"Alright Dreck, if you could tell me the date of the incident and then describe what occurred, that would very useful."

"Of course." Dreck shifted his hands into his lap and in-vented. "It happened five days ago. My owner held a dinner for some of his potential sponsors."

"Sponsors?" Orion gently interrupted.

Dreck nodded. "My owner is a racer. He's been steadily gaining a reputation and some more influential sponsors started to show interest in him."

Orion quickly wracked his processor for racers that met that description. Three possibilities came to mind, but he'd ask Dreck for the name of his master afterwards. He had a feeling asking right now might cause unnecessary stress. 

"It was going alright," Dreck continued. "My batch mate and I brought out the energon, but when the meal was finished our owner called us over. He was talking with Emirate Xeon."

Dreck paused, and when he started talking again, his voice was flat and eerily monotone. "The Emirate requested me and my batch mate for the night in exchange for his sponsorship. My owner agreed."

It was what Orion had anticipated, but didn't make listening any easier. 

"It wasn't what I expected. I thought he'd interface with us and that would be it."

Dreck's voice was still worryingly devoid of emotion. 

"Instead he separated us and brought me into a room with a camera. He held me down and hit me. A lot. With his fists. He stuffed some material in my vents so my systems would overheat. Then he took out a knife and…" 

Dreck trailed off, suddenly looking lost. He brought a hand up to gingerly touch his own neck cabling.

The silvery raised welding lines ran in disturbingly beautiful geometric patterns across the delicate material. 

"And cut your neck," Orion finished for him. 

Dreck nodded, still looking lost. 

"And what happened afterwards?" Orion prompted. 

"I passed out and woke up three days later at my master's residence," Dreck said. He met Orion's optics. "But my batch mate wasn't with me."

"This is the person you'd like to report as missing?" 

"Yes." 

Orion pulled up a different form on the datapad. "First, I have to ask," he said, hating how necessary the question was. "Are you sure your batch mate is missing? Is it possible your owner made a new arrangement with Emirate Xeon?" 

"No," Dreck said with the most conviction Orion had heard from him. "My owner has repeatedly complained to me about the Emirate putting off returning his property." 

_Property,_ Orion thought scornfully. 

He inclined his helm towards Dreck. "If you'll give me your owner's and batch mate's designations as well as a description of your batch mate, I'll see what I can do." 

Before long, Orion had the information and was seeing Dreck out of the station. "Please don't hesitate to come in if you have further questions," he told him.

Once the door had closed behind Dreck, Orion let himself go over the information. 

_The owner's name is Tiretread of Rodion. Missing victim's unofficial designation is Offal. He is very small with grey and brown plating. His alt mode is a microphone. His batch number is 1220._

"You didn't tell him you can't pursue the case." 

Orion looked over his shoulder. Roller was leaning against the security room doorframe, arms crossed. He'd likely heard everything on the security footage. 

Orion shrugged. "He doesn't need to know."

"Know what?" Roller huffed. "Know that you can't do anything with the assault report because he doesn't have legal rights? Or that at best a missing Disposable is considered stolen property? Oh or that because the owner won't report it you can't even open an investigation?"

Orion caught Roller's optics, then snapped back his mask to reveal an appeasing smile. "Come on, Roller. You know I can't let something like this continue unchecked. I didn't tell him because it doesn't matter."

"Because you're going to look into this _off the books?_ " Roller asked with an arched optic ridge. 

When Orion gave him a confident smile in response, Roller pushed himself off the doorframe. He took a couple steps forward then dropped a heavy hand on Orion's shoulder.

"And that's why I like you, but at least wait until Springarm and Wheelarch get back so I can come with you." 

When Orion opened his mouth to protest, Roller clapped him a little harder than necessary on the back, making the captain stumble. 

"No buts. You're too headstrong for your own good sometimes." With that, Roller lumbered back over to security. "Not everything's up to you to fix," he said. 

Orion rolled his optics. _That’s what you think._

* * *

“So we’re just going to break into the residence?” Roller asked, eyeing the house. It was a large place with a sleek shape that Orion recognized as Praxian in design. 

“That’s the plan,” Orion confirmed. "The owner has a second home in a more upscale district of Iacon where they’re staying for a couple of days. But this is where he held the dinner. Apparently it’s bigger than the other place.” 

Hopefully this little trip would provide some clues on the terms of Xeon and Tiretread's agreement. He'd tried to contact Tiretread earlier but couldn't get through. 

The other option had been waiting for Tiretread to respond, but judging by Dreck's ordeal, Orion didn't like the victim's odds of survival if they waited much longer. 

Orion squinted at the front door. It looked reinforced and the lock deactivated with a scanner of some sort. 

No, the front door wasn't plausible. 

Orion began to survey the area, walking around the house; searching for an easy entryway. They needed to be discreet. It wasn’t as if they had a warrant. 

Orion scanned the upper level as he rounded the corner.

_The wealthy love their-_

"There you are," Orion muttered to himself as he stared intently at the wide balcony. It was a convenient entryway, but the glass railing eliminated the possibility of tying something to it to climb up. 

On the other hand, it wasn't that high up all things considered. 

As though reading his mind, Roller came up from behind him and grasped his waist. With an effortlessly show of strength, he hoisted Orion up and over his helm to sit on his shoulders. 

Orion took it from there, and using Roller's head for support, he managed to stand with his pedes firmly pressed against the shoulder kibble. 

Roller grabbed hold of his legs to help him balance, then sidled up to the side of the house, and closer to the edge of the balcony. 

"Ready?" Roller whispered. 

"Ready," Orion replied 

Roller let go of his legs and using his partner's shoulders as a launchpad, Orion jumped. 

He cleared the railing, landing on the balcony with a muffled thump. 

From there it was a simple matter of picking the lock of the thin, unsecured door. 

Carefully creeping into the house, Orion took in his surroundings. He was in a spacious room. The only furniture were several massive cases with a variety of trophies and medals inside. 

A display room by the look of things and not what he needed. 

There were two doorways leading out of the room. Orion checked the first. A hallway. Orion considered taking the exit, but went on to check the second doorway.

It was a considerably smaller room with two desks and documents strewn about. 

An office: exactly what he wanted. 

It really was messy. Datapads, styluses, data slugs, and video-letter containers were scattered everywhere. It was strange for a mech that clearly owned servants. 

But atop the mess of every office supply ever created was a single-use, expensive looking datapad. 

Orion cautiously turned it on. Soft blue light lit the dark room. Orion pulled his hand away and grimaced. Some kind of gritty sand-like material was stuck to him. He tried to shake the substance off, but only succeeded in getting some of it stuck in his digit joints. 

Deciding to ignore it, Orion returned his attention to the screen and found himself staring down at a contract. 

He scanned over it quickly and was mildly confused by the end. The contract seemed to be some sort of co-sponsorship. The recipient of the backing was, of course, Tiretread. 

The sponsors were Xeon and The House of Maximus. 

Orion frowned at that. No individual signature, just a stamp of the Maximus House emblem. 

Orion checked his chronometer. The contract wasn't much, but it would have to do. He'd already been here longer than was advisable. He quickly snapped a picture of the contract, made his way back outside and carefully shut the door. 

This time he simply vaulted over the railing. As he landed, he let his bodyweight carry him forward into a roll, lessening the impact. He popped up to his pedes in a fluid motion and started to walk off the property. 

"Show off," Roller joked from behind as he followed. 

Once they were a full city block away, Orion spoke. "All I could find was a contract detailing a joint sponsorship. Xeon and the House of Maximus are the sponsors. It's not particularly useful and we know getting an interview with Xeon is a lost cause, so I'm thinking trying to get in contact with Tiretread might be the only way forward." 

Roller shook his helm. "Yeah, that's not gonna work. You check the sports news lately?"

Orion looked at him blankly.

"No? Fair enough." 

A new message just sent by Roller pinged Orion. He opened it and was met with the headline: "Rookie Racer, Tiretread of Rodion Confirmed to Soon Compete With the Elite." 

"He qualified to compete in the Ibex Cup next year. They're moving him off world to one of those crazy training facilities."

"Maybe we can catch him before then," Orion suggested. 

Roller pulled out a juice box from his subspace. "Doubt it," he said, then took a drink. "It'll happen within the week, and you can bet benefactors aren't going to let enforcement anywhere near him. Nobody wants to risk a scandal or arrest when racers are so profitable."

Orion sighed and Roller patted him on the back. "Cheer up. Xeon definitely won't talk to us without an open investigation or warrant—which we don't have, but I hear the members of the House of Maximus are friendly. Well, friendly for Nobles." 

"Maximus House...Maximus House...Pious Maximus! Roller you're a genius!" Orion cried. 

Roller grinned happily, albeit somewhat perplexed as his plating heated up noticeably with embarrassment. "I don't think I understand."

Orion grinned back from behind his mask. "Pious Maximus—a major advocate for Disposable rights and a member of the house that sponsors Tiretread. He's our ticket to talking with Tiretread!" 

"Oh," Roller said, the word taking on a distinctly pleased tone. "That's great!"

"It is," Orion agreed. "I'll try to contact him when we get back to the station." 

He did exactly that. It was late; on Orion's off shift, but he found Pious Maximus's contact information in the system and gave him a call. 

It was the easiest exchange he'd had in years. Orion explained the circumstances and Pious offered to meet the next day. The ease of it seemed impossible. 

Orion sat back in his chair and planned out his next course of action. 

Figuring out if there was anyway to open an investigation sounded like a good start. He'd stop at the enforcement headquarters tomorrow morning before his meeting with Pious. 

The law department there was knowledgeable and reliable and unlike the Bureau of Enforcement Resources, he knew the chance of corruption to be much lower.

He knew the mechs that worked there, their reputations and the Ultra Magnus overseeing things certainly helped. 

_Please don't let this be like the clinic,_ Orion thought pleadingly. 

* * *

  
Orion ended up spending the rest of the night at the station, recharging in one of the unused interrogation rooms. 

Springarm had attempted to persuade him into going home, but Orion had refused, deciding it would ultimately be more convenient to spend the next few hours there. 

Wheelarch ended up being the one to wake him up. He roughly shook his captain awake and gave him what was possibly the most unimpressed look Orion had ever seen. 

_Don't look at me like that_ Orion thought with exasperation. _At least I'm willing to do what needs to be done. What no one else will do._

"Ready to go?" Roller asked once Orion made his way into the front desk; politely ignoring the grogginess of his captain's affirmative grunt. 

They made their way to the enforcement headquarters in relative silence. Meaning Orion was mostly silent while Roller chatted at him about various things. 

It wasn't that he didn't like talking to Roller. He did. It was just that debating the merits of the hot new Shock Pop album didn't leave much space for trying to figure out how to explain the situation without mentioning he'd broken into a residence. 

Those mental gymnastics required his full attention. 

When they finally reached the law department, Orion took a vent to steel himself. But when he opened the door he was met with the sight of a mech he hadn't expected to see. 

Megatron stood tall next to a mech Orion recognized as Chief Enforcement Attorney Rapido. 

They were talking in hushed, but gentle tones and Megatron was holding a large box against his chest.

Megatron, tall and broad with strong features and a stronger mind. 

Orion remembered the terror he'd seen on Megatron's face when he'd ran from the Dead End clinic and marveled at how well he'd recovered—how resilient he must be. 

Rapido noticed their presence first. He paused in whatever he'd been saying and turned to face them. 

"Captain Orion Pax?" he asked. 

Orion took a step forward. "I'm honored you remember me, Chief Enforcement Attorney."

Rapido reached out to shake Orion's hand. "It's hard to forget when the Ultra Magnus speaks so highly of you, Captain. And please, call me Rapido. My title is much too long." 

Orion nodded. "Then call me Orion. I apologize for my sudden visit, but I was wondering if there was anyway to open an investigation for a missing person if that individual is a Disposable." 

Rapido frowned thoughtfully. "If the owner makes a case for stolen proper-"

"Without a stolen property claim," Orion added. 

Rapido's frown deepend. "I'd have to check if something like that's been done before. Give me a moment."

He turned back to Megatron. "Remeber," he said. "Just because the Senate won't allow you learn officially doesn't mean you can't do it unofficially. There's enough legal information in there to supplement a law course." 

Orion subtly glanced at the rim of the box and caught a glimpse of a pile of datapad. 

"Thank you, Rapido," Megatron said.

"It's really no trouble." That said, Rapido walked over to his office and dissapeared inside to get the information Orion had requested. 

Orion cleared his vocalizer. "Megatron," he greeted. 

"Captain," Megatron said in return. His deep voice sent a shiver up Orion's backstrut. 

Orion stuck out his hand for a handshake. "Please, my friends call me Orion."

Megatron's optic ridges rose as Orion felt Roller shift oddly from behind. He worried he'd been too forward when Megatron firmly took his hand. The edges of the grey mech's lips curved into a small smile.

"Well...Orion...I never did thank you for what you did for me, so thank you."

"That's my job," Orion said, unsure if he meant discovering Megatron's innocence or calming him down in the Dead End. 

At that, Megatron's optics widened and he looked at Orion as if he were seeing someone new. It was a nice look; one filled with approval. Orion liked being looked at like that. 

Orion cleared his vocalizer again. "What are you doing here?"

Megatron readjusted his grip on the box. "I used to have an internship here. The newest education law that was passed prohibits me from continuing. Rapido wanted to send me off with some information since I can't learn here anymore." 

Orion was cut off from giving his condolences with a wave of the hand.

"Don't," Megatron said. It's not your fault. You don't need to apologize. The words came out of Megatron's vocalizer strained with a hint of anger in them. 

But before Megatron let his hand fall back, his optic ridges drew down in confusion. He lifted his hand—the same one Orion had shaken and brought it in front of his face. He stared at it a moment, then let it drop back to the box. 

"You've been to Kaon lately?" It was phrased like a question, but came out more like a statement. 

"No," Orion said with a frown. 

"Strange." Megatron pointed at Orion's hand. "You have afaite stuck in your joints."

Orion thought back to that strange gritty material. "Afaite?" 

"It's a type of rock only found in Kaon," Megatron explained. "It's very brittle and easily breaks off. The pieces are quickly ground down into dust by the elements. It's found everywhere in the city and unfortunately has a tendency to stick and get into your joints." 

"No, I haven't been to Kaon lately."

_But the Emirate of Kaon has._

"Have you?"

Megatron shook his head. "I've never been to Kaon in my life, but I do have a material database that can recognize most rocks and minerals. Cold Constructed miners are made with them." 

Orion hummed with interest. "I'd love to have a program like that. If functionists would look at the bigger picture, I think they'd find that miners might work well in forensics." 

A short bark of laughter left Megatron and an amused grin found it's way to his mouth. 

"Maybe so," he mused and Orion found himself grinning back uncontrollably. Thankfully, his mask hid the stupidly earnest expression, but he had no doubt Megatron could see the smile in his optics. 

"Oh hey," Roller cut in, leaning over Orion's shoulder. "You're a Noble, right?"

The smile fell from Megatron's face. "Yes," he said curtly. 

"Great. Would you be interesting in working as a consultant for our case?"

Orion blinked in surprise. He looked back at Roller with a questioning gaze and knew Megatron was doing the same. 

"We have a meeting with another Noble today, but chances are, we'll have to talk with more. It would be helpful if we could come to you for information about certain Nobles and their connections. And if you could put in the good word in case some of them have reservations about speaking with us."

Orion made a mental note to tell Roller he came up with the best ideas. 

Megatron's optics darted between the two of them. He looked uncertain. 

"I...can," he said with an inclination of the helm. "Bear in mind, I haven't been a Noble very long, but I can try my best to get that information." 

They exchanged comm frequencies and shook hands again. 

"I should leave," Megatron said. "I promised my conjunx I'd stop by his office when I finished with Rapido." 

He thanked both of them and left. 

_Conjunx,_ Orion thought bitterly. Megatron spoke the word as a fact. And while Orion couldn't detect any dissatisfaction in his tone, that didn't mean the grey mech was happy. 

He'd watched the bonding ceremony and noticed the distinct unhappiness of Megatron. 

No, it wasn't only Megatron who'd been unhappy. He'd noticed the distinct unhappiness of Megatron and Minimus Ambus. 

Two mechs Orion deeply respected being forced together. 

_Neither of them could be happy,_ Orion thought. How could they be in such an arrangement? 

_No,_ Orion chided himself. _It isn't my place to speculate about that._

Instead he let his mind wander to how different Megatron seemed from their last two encounters—more talkative, more sure of himself. Maybe it was meeting him in more favorable circumstances, but Megatron was… harsher. 

Orion shook himself out of his thoughts and saw Roller staring at him incredulously. 

"What?" Orion asked.

Before Roller could respond, Rapido came back into the room. He shook his helm. "Sorry," he said. "There's no possibility an investigation could be opened under the circumstances you've given me."

"Oh Pit," Orion swore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments!


	16. Part 2 Chapter 2

_What a strange mech,_ Megatron thought. He hitched the box of datapads up more securely against his chest. 

He'd been in a dark mood for the past few days. It hung over him like an electric storm, blackening his thoughts. 

He'd tried to keep the foul air to himself, but like an electric storm, it was impossible not to be aware of its presence. It seeped through his EM field, easily alerting Minimus and the Estate servants who’d done their best to give Megatron space.

Even worse, Minimus appeared to have caught it that morning. It wasn’t an unexpected development. They were both still sleeping in the living room after all. That was surely a contributor to the displeasure and gloom that seemed to roll of Minimus in waves. 

Megatron would've liked to attribute the darkness of his thoughts to chance—a result of waking up on the wrong side of the berth, or couch in this case. But Megatron knew better. His mood had been brought on by Rapido calling to ask him to come in for a goodbye and a parting gift.

The gesture was kind. Megatron could easily admit that, but it reminded him of what he'd lost in such a short amount of time. 

Rapido had met him in the law department; given him farewells, advice and a box of datapads, but the dark mood had still festered. It had tainted his mind with what-ifs and accusations. 

_What if the education legislation never passed._

_What if they'd caught the mech that had tried to forcibly reformat me?_

_What if someone had fought for me to continue my education?_

_Why hasn't anyone fought? Even when I'm a noble no one cares enough to fight for my rights. And they care even less about those like me who aren't miscategorized; who aren't mid class or higher._

_No one cares enough to fight._

And then Orion Pax had interrupted. 

Officer Orion Pax: a high ranking enforcer who did his job with a seemingly sincere desire to help. Nearly all other authority figures with the law behind them that Megatron had encountered used their power to abuse others for their own benefit, or the sheer enjoyment of it. 

The overseers of the mines, the military cadets at Maccadam's, the guards Senator Decimus had brought with him to Outpost C-12, the officer that had beaten Megatron in his cell. 

_Cowards and scum, all of them._

The only exceptions to the rule Megatron had witnessed were Minimus and apparently, Orion. 

Orion, who'd pulled the officer off Megatron before he'd been beaten to death. Orion, who'd proven his innocence and then instead of simply releasing him, had called in a medic to help, despite how badly the incident could damage Orion's reputation as an enforcement captain. 

Orion, who'd chased Megatron down in the Dead End to calm him and ensure no harm would befall the grey mech. Orion, who cared enough to pursue justice for a member of society considered to be expendable; one who wouldn't have even been entertained by other members of enforcement.

Orion, who cared enough to fight.

That epiphany lightened the darkness. It didn't lift the storm; didn't resolve the anger, but it made it easier to think. 

_But does he want something from me?_ It made more sense than the depressingly far-fetched notion of finding a mech with a genuinely kind spark. 

_Having an ulterior motive is in our nature as a species. Even if there's no mal-intent, It's all about what you can get from another and how. Business, politics, relationships—_

That particularly bleak and slightly irrational thought was cut off by Ramp making himself known. Megatron was brought back to the present as the smaller mech inserted himself into Megatron's personal space with the unearned ease of a long-time friend.

To Megatron's surprise and displeasure, he found himself suspicious of the familiarity. 

_This is Minimus's friend,_ he told himself. _Someone he said is trustworthy. There's no reason for misgivings._

But then again, he hadn't thought he'd needed to be distrustful of Minimus's House, and that had gotten him assaulted. 

Ramp fell into step beside him, keeping up with ease despite the size difference. "How are you doing, Megatron?" he asked pleasantly, a smile in his optics. 

"I'm alright, Director" Megatron replied. "I'm assuming Minimus mentioned my presence here."

It came out more dismissive than he'd meant, but Ramp didn't appear to be put out. His optics flicked down to the box of datapads, then traveled back up to Megatron; holding the same friendliness in them. 

"No actually." Ramp gave a shrug. "I haven't even gotten the chance to talk to Mins today. Senator Shockwave dropped by for a visit." Ramp's voice then lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "Mins has trouble keeping the volume down when his temper flares. The whole office is listening while trying to pretend they can't hear the argument."

"And so you left?"

Ramp bumped him playfully. "As much as I love some good gossip, your name came up quite a bit. It felt a little intrusive to stick around." 

_And yet you just happened to run into me,_ Megatron thought doubtfully. He considered saying something to that effect, but abandoned the idea when muffled shouting reached his audials. 

"Temper, Minimus," Ramp muttered with a chuckle and Megatron was brought to the realization that he'd only ever seen Minimus truly angry once. The fury on Minimus face when he'd walked in on Megaton's near reformat had been an overwhelming relief. But otherwise, the mech had only shown Megatron a calm and level headed, if sometimes worried disposition. 

The implication that Minimus apparently had a temper; one that flared enough for Ramp to be familiar with how it manifested, was strange. 

_And how else should he treat a conjunx that continually shows fear like some flighty animal._ Megatron forcefully stopped his own engine from growling. _Fear towards my new surroundings, towards a threat made at our reception, towards him the night of our bonding, towards our own damned berth room._

The closer they got, the louder the shouting grew. They passed open office doors, the front desk and a few mechs in the hallways, some enforcers, others from various departments. Everyone they passed was doing exactly what Ramp had described. 

Their optics strayed in the direction of the shouting, clearly curious, but as soon as they felt someone watching, they quickly averted their gaze and returned to their duties.

It continued right up until they arrived at Minimus's office door, where a roaring, "No!" ripped through the walls, followed by a sudden silence. 

A moment passed.

"Well, good luck!" Ramp said. He made an aborted move to pat Megatron on the shoulder, stopping when he realized he couldn't reach that far up. Instead he gave Megatron a mock salute. 

"Give Mins a hug for me. I think he needs one today."

Megatron wasn't sure what that meant and didn't ask. Ramp left back the way he'd come and for the first time, Megatron noticed a limp in the director's gait. 

It was subtle; nearly unnoticeable, but having been a miner, Megatron was well versed in seeing the aftermath of insufficiently repaired injuries. Except it didn't make sense for the director of enforcement central to have been subjected to poor medical care. 

_Probably severe, unrepairable damage_ , Megatron decided.

He gripped the box a little tighter with one arm in order to let go of it with the other and rapped his knuckles against the door.

"It's Megatron," he called. 

"Come in," came Minimus's voice without so much as a pause. The door slid open.

Megatron slipped inside and the door shut swiftly behind him. Inside was the scene he'd more or less expected from the shouting. 

Minimus stood behind his desk, tall and disconcertingly rigid in his armor, as if he were trying to keep his plating from rattling with anger. His hands were clenched at his sides and his mouth was set in a deep frown.

Standing in front of him, back to Megatron, was Senator Shockwave. And despite the mutual shouting that had been heard from down the hall, Shockwave's posture was much more relaxed than Minimus's. 

Shockwave turned to face Megatron. He gave a bright smile, but the vestiges of frustration showed on his face. 

"Megatron! Just the mech I wanted to—"

"No!" Minimus interrupted. The word came out like the snarl of a mechanimal.

"Careful Minimus," Shockwave said gently, "your beast is showing." 

Minimus flinched and the near baring of denta instantly fell from his face. It would've been such an innocuous phrase if it hadn't invoked such a sudden reaction. Megatron tried to catch Minimus's gaze; to get a clue about what that meant, but Minimus refused to meet his optics, as if ashamed. 

"As I was saying," Shockwave said. "Fortis got back to me and said he'd delivered my offer. It's been a couple days and I'd like to know if you've made a decision."

It was said with a certain confidence behind it, as if Shockwave already knew the answer he was going to get.

 _And maybe he does,_ Megatron thought consideringly. But still, there was a certain amount of arrogance there. While he'd been unsure what he thought of the Senator, the clearly veiled insult to Minimus and the self-surety began the slow burn of dislike within Megatron. 

"Shockwave," Minimus tried, much more reserved this time.

"Yes," Megatron said before Minimus could continue. "My answer is yes, Senator." 

There was a loud thump. Megatron looked over to see that Minimus had dropped down into his chair. He suddenly looked tired; like he wanted to bury his helm in his hands.

"Excellent!" Shockwave said. He turned his back on Minimus completely to face Megatron. "Let me just bring you up to speed on how this will work. The Territory Law is a very old piece of legislation. Around eight point five million years old, but technically still on the books."

 _The Territory law._ Fortis had mentioned that. Rapido had as well when he'd seemed exasperated at someone on a call. 

_“It’s the fragging Territory Law. It’s ancient. I don’t even know how it could be used in today’s time.” That's what Rapido had said._

"When the government as we know it was still forming, there were fragments of tribal settlements that refused to be annexed under the single Cybertronian banner,” Shockwave explained. “As a compromise, those settlements were made into territories of the larger cities. This meant the settlements weren’t likely to be subjected to a violent takeover. But in exchange, leaders of the cities could appoint officials to the territories. This is actually the origin of the position of Emirate."

Shockwave gestured to a map of Cybertron on the office wall. "Of course culturally and administratively, territories eventually merged into the cities, but some semblance of the system remains. Take Rodion for example. Technically it's its own city-state, but it's so small and close to Iacon and there's so much travel between the two that's it's treated by citizens and officials as a district of Iacon."

Megatron nodded cautiously. "And this is relevant to me becoming an Emirate?" He asked.

"Very relevant," Shockwave said with a grin. "As I said before, the law is still on the books and Rodion is still legally a territory. One of few left actually."

"And you're an Iacon official," Megatron finished, the plan clicking in his processor. You'll appoint me."

"Oh Primus no," Shockwave said with a shake of the helm. "I can't appoint you. Proteus could undo that in a few months."

Megatron frowned and Shockwave gave another shake of the helm. "No, Record Keeper Alpha Trion will be appointing you as Rodion's Emirate." 

"Oh," Megatron said, slightly taken aback. 

"Yes, there's a stipulation in the Territory law that only allows another official to remove the Emirate if they are the same rank as the appointer. While Alpha Trion is technically an official, his position as Record Keeper is unique. There’s no equivalent rank." 

Megatron glanced over at Minimus, but his conjunx didn't acknowledge him. "That's...convenient," Megatron offered. 

Shockwave made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. "It was written like that to ensure members of territories with ranks equal to or higher than city officials couldn't remove their Emirate. City legislators claimed that because territories and cities had different authorial systems, the ranks of mechs from one couldn't be fairly compared to the other. And so, there was no way for a territory official to have a rank equivalent to a city official."

That made it make perfect sense to Megatron. It was by chance that the law served their purposes, but the legislation was built on the desire to keep absolute power; to push down the heads of those below. It spread an illness that weakened society. 

"But why all the convolutions?" Megatron asked. "Why not simply write into the law that only city officials can remove Emirates? Doesn't that create issues if a higher ranking city official wants to remove an Emirate?" 

Shockwave turned his helm to look at Minimus. "You see it don't you?" he asked and Megatron could hear the actual giddiness in the senator's voice. "Already honing in on the important questions. He's a politician in the making!"

He gave Minimus a delighted smile in a clear attempt to break the tension in the room. Minimus just stared blankly back until Shockwave's smile lost its shine and he rushed to clear his vocalizer.

"Yes...well that's the clever part," Shockwave went on, awkwardly turning back to Megatron. 

"Outright stating that in the law would be putting it in writing that citizens of territories are inherently less than those from cities. It would easily generate resentment. The fair comparison argument wasn't actually written into law, but it was followed when territories raised complaints about their Emirates. Because of the convolutions, the stipulation escaped the notice of the less politically educated or inclined." 

"As for higher ranking officials," Shockwave said with tilt of the helm. "If the Prime asked for an Emirate to be removed back then, mechs would have scurried to obey. And that was all that mattered." 

_Even back then Primes did nothing to prevent blatant misdeeds from the government. Whether through ignorance or complicitness, corruption was allowed to take root._

"Ah," Megatron muttered. "That much hasn't changed."

Shockwave chuckled softly. "So it hasn't," he agreed, then sent Megatron a message. "That's my frequency. I'll come around tomorrow to pick you up. Comm me if something changes." 

"Pick me up?" Megatron asked. 

Unexpectedly, Minimus was the one to answer. "The Senator wants to bring you to Kaon to present you to your...supporters." 

"And teach you," Shockwave added. "This isn't a publicity stunt."

Minimus looked at him, incredulous. 

"It's not," Shockwave insisted. "I'm not doing this for appearances. He'll need to meet his supporters sooner or later. Besides, it'll be better for him to learn in a supportive environment. Kaonites adore his rhetoric!"

Minimus didn't respond. Instead he gave Megatron a meaningful look. One that said 'This is a bad idea'. 

But it wasn't Minimus's choice. 

_Or maybe it is,_ Megatron thought. Minimus was essentially his owner according to Noble culture. If he wanted, he could forbid Megatron from interacting with Shockwave. 

Megatron paused at the absurdity of that foul thought, then hurriedly pushed it aside. "What time tomorrow should I expect you, Senator?" he asked. 

A sudden chill entered Minimus's EM field and then the sensation disappeared, having been tucked tightly against the Ultra Magnus's frame. Megatron and Shockwave ignored it. 

Once the details had been hammered out and Shockwave was set to pick up Megatron in the morning, the senator shook his hand and made to leave.

"It's been wonderful to properly speak to you," Shockwave said. He turned to Minimus. "I regret any disagreements we might have," he added diplomatically, "but know I'd never wish harm on you or your family, Minimus. I still consider you my friend."

Minimus's expression remained as stonily cold as his EM field. "I believe a friend of mine wouldn’t take something I told them in confidence and throw it back in my face to get their way."

Shockwave flinched exactly as Minimus had earlier. And for the first time Megatron had seen, the senator didn't seem to have a response.

After a long silence Shockwave cleared his vocalizer. "I apologize for my callousness," he said. "It was...uncalled for."

Minimus gave a curt nod and that was that. Senator Shockwave left, leaving Megatron and his conjunx alone. They stood in uneasy silence a moment before Minimus pointed to the box in Megatron's arms.

"Did you get everything you needed?"

"Yes." 

"Good." Minimus said stiffly. His voice sounded as though he were forcing the emotion out of it. "I think I'll work the rest of the day from home. I've finished all I need to here."

That was unusual. Minimus rarely worked from home, but given what Ramp had said in addition recent events, Megatron reasoned that Mininus was stressed enough to warrant the change in routine. 

And so, not wishing his conjunx any further stress, Megatron nodded and followed Minimus out of the building and to the Estate. 

It was a rather awkward trip. Neither of them talked and although Minimus kept his field reigned in, the turmoil of emotions within made it unpleasant to brush against. The exact mix of emotions was hard to decipher with Minimus's control, but the agitation was easy to feel. 

"Would hitting me make you feel better?" Megatron asked once they'd entered the Estate and he'd put down the box. It was the kind of thing Impactor would’ve said as a joke and Megatron had asked with the hope that it would lighten the mood.

However, the timing and teller of the joke did it no favors. It fell flat, leaving Minimus to stare at his conjunx in open horror.

“I–I’d never hit you,” Minimus hurriedly assured him. “Megatron, surely you know—” He reached for Megatron then stopped. “Have I given you cause to think that I’ll harm you? If so—”

“It was a joke, Minimus,” Megatron interrupted. “A bad one. I know you’re not the type for conjunxal abuse.” 

A rush of air left the Magnus armor. Minimus’s entire frame seemed to slump in on itself. “I wouldn’t,” he said so softly Megatron almost didn’t catch it. “I’m not an animal.”

“I never said you were,” Megatron said, the corners of his mouth sloping downwards into a confused frown. 

Minimus lifted his helm to stare down at Megatron, optics filled with shame. And for some reason, the senator’s words came back to Megatron. 

_Careful Minimus, your beast is showing._

It was like the part of a puzzle being assembled. Megatron couldn’t make out the entire picture, but he had a general idea of the scene. The self-contempt was clear enough.

“You’re no less of a person than anyone else. I’d say you’re a better one than most,” Megatron said.

Minimus was still staring down at him—leaning down towards him.

“Kinder, fairer, more competent—”

And suddenly their faces were close; nearly touching. Hesitance hung like the space between them. A moment of indecision. And then Megatron closed the gap. 

It was the second time they’d kissed. While the first had been quick and chaste; a display for a crowd to affirm a union neither had wanted, this was borne of a newfound affection. 

Minimus tilted his helm to deepen the kiss. The sensation sent sparks down Megatron’s backstrut. He brought his hands up to cup Minimus’s face. The plating was hot against his hands. Too hot: a sign of stressed systems.

Megatron broke the kiss and suddenly, there was a feeling of discomfort between them. An unsettling uncertainty that permeated their EM fields. At the beginning of the arrangement, starting with the lack of interfacing on their bonding night, there’d been a sort of unspoken agreement that the relationship would be platonic. They’d forged a comfortable connection based on that contract. 

Now, unexpectedly and on a mere whim, the contract had been broken. Left in its place was the uncomfortable question of how they should interact going forward.

Megatron let his hands fall from Minimus’s face. “Are you alright?” he asked.

Minimus reset his optics twice. “Yes?” He loosened control on his field and a wave of guilt and anger and sadness hit Megatron. He forced himself not to cringe away.

“No,” Minimus amended. “I’m not alright.” 

He pulled away from Megatron. “It’s the anniversary of the previous Ultra Magnus's resignation.” 

“Didn’t you say Ramp is your predecessor?” Megatron said, remembering his first meeting the Director. 

“Yes,” Minimus replied, then looked around. They were still standing in the entryway. “I think it might be…beneficial to sit down for this." Megatron nodded and the two walked to the living room. They sat beside one another on the couch. 

“You probably haven’t noticed,” Minimus began, “but Ramp has a slight limp. He hides it well.”

Megatron didn’t correct Minimus’s assumption. He simply remained quiet, waiting for Minimus to continue. 

“It’s severe metal fatigue. The type that only manifests in very old Cybertronains or those exposed to devestating levels of radiation. It’s uncurable. The nanites are irreveribly damaged, and the frame will continue to produce damaged ones.”

Minimus stared down at his lap. “Before my term, the Ultra Magnus position was much more involved in the field. Ramp personally led his own task force of which I was a member. There was a raid. It was a drug ring based in a reactor building. The leader escaped the initial charge and at some point I found myself in a position where I could apprehend him. If I did nothing he’d likely escape and he had a history of being hard to track. As a result I—”

A long hot rush of air escaped Minimus’s vents; making them rattle. “I broke rank and gave chase. We entered the reactor room and it ended...badly. He crushed my neck cabling and shattered my left optic by the time Ramp intervened. During the scuffle, Ramp was shoved into the reactor. The radiation crippled him.”

Megatron felt another stream of hot air and wondered if Minimus’s real frame was showing similar signs of emotional stress beneath the armor.

“It was especially bad for the first couple of months,” Minimus explained somberly. “They weren’t sure whether he was going to live, let alone be mobile. When he eventually did recover, they found that the metal fatigue prevented him from operating the Magnus armor. The weight of the armor would tear the weakened metal of his body at the smallest of movements.” 

The thought of that kind of pain made Megatron grimace. To come away with only a subtle limp after something that horrifically damaging was impressive. Minimus went quiet so Megatron gave a careful verbal nudge.

“And then he resigned?”

“And then he resigned,” Minimus echoed. “He was injured and forced to do so because of my disreard of protocol. In a just world I would’ve been removed from the force, but by chance I was the only qualified member of enforcement to become the next Ultra Magnus. Point One Percenters are rare enough. That I was of the Load Bearing kind needed to operate the armor and experienced in enforcement was reason enough for Tyrest to appoint me. Ramp took on the administrative duties of director.” 

Well that explained Minimus's initial reluctance to explain why his predecessor graduated with him rather than before. 

“You know,” Minimus said suddenly. “The Ultra Magnus doesn’t hold that much power, all things considered. I oversee enforcement, make things run smoothly, root out corruption where I can, but I don’t make the laws. I work within them. I’ve sat in on laws being made and voted for; provided information in support of laws—disgusting laws. But I don’t protest. I don’t have that power and in my case, acting outside the rules has only ever ended regrettably.”

He looked over at Megatron with a wry smile. “And then Shockwave threw you into my life. I support your ideas, I really do. An equal Cybertron is like a dream. But the path to get there will never be entirely within the rules. That terrifies me.”

 _What could happen to you terrifies me,_ was left unsaid. 

Megatron thought about that. About the politicians, the members of the upper class, the religious with similar views as Parson Ambus on his hybrid status—those who never wanted someone like Megatron to gain power because of his ideas or who and what he was. 

Attempts at memorsurgry and reformatting, Legal discrimination and threats. Imprisonment and attempted murder. He’d experienced them all. Was there anything left to be truly terrified of? 

A thousands ends of pain and sorrow

A thousand beginnings of lives worth living

With even the barest possibility of a future like that, Megatron couldn’t afford to be terrified. He put a comforting hand on Minimus’s shoulder. “I think hitting something might due you some good.” he said.

Minimus looked at him as if he’d sprouted a second helm. 

“The punching dummies,” Megatron clarified. “I’m accepting Shockwave’s offer and it’s clear that you feel some amount of irritation towards both of us.”

“I’m not irritated at you,” Minimus protested. “I’m worried.”

“You’re angry at Shockwave,” Megatron pointed out. Minimus’s face darkened and his engine rumbled as if in confirmation.

“Use a dummy,” Megatron pressed. He stood up from the couch. “Impactor used to say the only reason he hadn’t punched an overseer was because he spent everyday hitting rocks. It’s probably cathartic. 

“What do you say? He offered his conjunx a hand. Minimus took hold and let himself be pulled up. 

“That does sound helpful.”

“Good,” Megatron replied. “I’d like to watch if you don’t mind. I think I could learn something.”

* * *

Drift stood in the Dead End clinic's main room, wiping down a console with disinfectant. Sometimes he really couldn’t believe his situation.

He had a job, regular enegon and almost enough shanix saved up to rent a small apartment. 

It was the kind of good fortune he'd only ever fantasized about. But here he was thanks to the kindness of a single medic. One who was genuinely trying to make life a little better for mechs like Drift.

He liked Ratchet. Quite a lot. He believed in equal treatment of all Cybertronians and had enough conviction in that belief to run the clinic using his own money. The medic was gruff in his bedside manner, but didn't have problems using gentleness when the situation called for it. He also had a wonderfully deadpan sense of humor that Drift loved.

He couldn't offer the same praise about the type of company Ratchet kept. Or rather he couldn't offer the same praise about the only two friends of Ratchet's he’d met. 

He’d seen the enforcer in the Dead End before and tried hard to steer clear of him. The other friend and medic, Pharma, was in Drift's opinion, a complete aft. 

He'd only actually met the mech once, but that had been enough. When Pharma came to drop off Frenzy, Ratchet had been in the back room, leaving Drift to receive them. 

Pharma had introduced himself with a smug smile, and then haughtily said, "Ah, you're the charity case then? Ratchet's little pet Leaker.”

It shouldn't have stung as much as it did. Drift knew what he was and had no allusions about how he was seen by the rest of society. But still, he'd felt useful working at the clinic. He was making progress getting clean and felt like this was his chance to make something of himself. Pharma had torn that down with two sentences in a bid for some feeling of superiority.

"Drift?"

Frenzy was sitting up on his berth; looking at Drift imploringly. Drift thought Frenzy was...also an aft. A different kind than the pompous Pharma, but still an aft. 

He was brash and like to poke fun at others. He also possessed an annoying propensity for playing pranks. It was actually rather impressive for a mech with an actual hole in his face and a plethora of other injuries. 

They were simple pranks. Oil slicked equipment and floors mostly, but Drift wasn’t sure how berth-bound Frenzy actually managed it. It was a miracle Ratchet hadn’t snapped yet. But then again, what could Ratchet do? Kick the minibot out? No, Ratchet was sparkless. Frenzy had a PIC, no memory, no where to go and was dead on the records.

“What do you want, Frenzy?”

The minibot grinned. “I’m bored. You got anything to do?”

“No,” Drift said, then went back to cleaning one of the consoles. His thoughts gradually fell into pleasant daydreams about truly making something of himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


	17. Part 2 Chapter 3

“Huh,” Roller said as he stared ahead. “Maybe this isn’t the right…” he trailed off to make a quick glance down at his datapad. “Nope, this is the right address. It’s ah, not what I expected. It’s…”

“Modest?” Orion offered.

“Yeah,” Roller agreed. “Real modest.”

And for a Noble, it really was. Pious Maximus’s residence was a simple building. It was wide and boxily shaped, with dark tinted windows. At only one story, it possessed none of the grandeur Orion had come to expect from homes belonging to House members. No elaborate crests or spirals; no excessive space, or sprawling balconies. Even those from the smaller Houses tended to have mansions or designer homes. 

The only feature that spoke to the owner’s wealth was the large and elaborate crystal garden covering the property and the—

Orion did a double take. And the helipad on the building’s roof. “Maybe not that modest after all,” Orion joked, tipping his helm in the direction of the helipad.

Roller followed his gaze, snorted, and then began walking towards the door. Orion trailed close behind and watched as Roller pushed the buzzer.

They waited a moment and when no one answered, Roller pressed the buzzer again. There was no response.

"Try knocking," Orion said.

Roller looked at the heavy Trithyllium door; then glanced at Orion doubtfully. Regardless of his apparent reservations he rapped his knuckles against the metal.

It made an ugly but soft rattling noise that probably didn't reach deeper inside the house than the buzzer.

"It's definitely got a silencer built in," Roller supplied. 

Orion heaved a sigh. "Give me a klick, I'll comm him." 

He hailed the frequency but no one picked up. A feeling of unease was beginning to settle into Orion's systems. He checked his chronometer. They were on time. 

Stepping up to the door beside Roller, Orion banged his fist against the metal a couple times. “Enforcement! Open the door!” The hard impact made the same low rattle and there was still no response. The unease thickened.

"I'm going to break in," Orion announced. 

Roller’s helm whipped around so fast Orion had an absurd moment of worry that it would pop off his shoulders. 

"What?"

"I said I'm breaking in," Orion said. "Probable cause."

"Orion," Roller groaned, "we just broke into someone's house yesterday. Can't we just do things the normal way today?"

"Probable cause," Orion repeated as he began to prowl the perimeter of the building, looking for an entryway. 

"It's really not," Roller argued after him. 

Orion snorted. "Wellness check then. What happened to the ‘that’s why I like you’ tune you were singing yesterday?”

"Just think it’s a little brazen, don’t you? Doing this in the middle of the day." Roller grimaced. “Wellness check works and all, but I'd rather not be on the receiving end of one of Springarm's misconduct lectures."

A slightly slid up window caught Orion’s optic and he suppressed a chuckle. "As your and Springarm's captain, I promise to shoulder the burden of any untoward lectures."

With that, he slid his digits under the window and wrenched upwards. It opened easily and the space was wide and tall enough for even Roller's large frame. 

Orion pulled himself through the opening and when his pedes hit the floor, the blaring sound of an alarm went off.

It was painfully loud; with a way of reverberating through the walls that made it even more piercing. 

But as off-putting as the alarm was, it paled in comparison to the state of the room. The dark tint of the window had hidden the interior, but now inside, Orion could see the clear signs of a struggle. 

The most obvious clues were the overturned furniture and crystal light fixture that lay shattered on the floor beside a table. But as Orion really started to look, he saw the small signs as well: grip marks on the edge of a doorway, scuffs on the carpet, the lazy glow of a monitor still on as if someone had been torn away from their work. 

Orion looked out the window at Roller and was met with an expression somewhere between smugness and nervousness. “That alarm’s going to alert enforcement,” he said. “I mean we are enforcement, but that’s still going to complicate things. I can probably get it to turn off—”

“Roller,” Orion cut in. He gestured for the bigger mech to come closer. Roller poked his helm through the window and the warring emotions fell off his face. “I can do a search,” he quickly volunteered. “Check if anyone’s still here.”

Orion nodded his assent and Roller climbed through the window. Once inside, he unholstered his blaster and carefully crept out of the room.

Staying in the space that Orion figured was a living room of sorts, he began to snap pictures of the scene; taking care not to touch or move anything. 

The alarm suddenly cut out and it wasn’t long before Roller came back shaking his helm. “No,” he said, “There’s no one here except us.” 

_Not exactly good news,_ Orion thought sourly. There was a pause before Roller spoke again. “What do you think's going on?”

“I think,” I Orion began, “it isn’t a coincidence that Pious goes missing after he made arrangements to speak with us.”

Roller pursed his lips. “You sure? It’s not like Pious doesn’t have enemies. With all his anti-Ratioism rhetoric and influence, Functionists hate the guy. Seems a little overboard to target someone because of one missing Disposable.”

Orion took a picture of a nasty looking helm-shaped dent in the side of a console. “Well regardless, Pious was the only lead we had. Call Wheelarch and tell him to send more officers here and to contact the Head of the House of Maximus and whichever other members he can get ahold of. I doubt they’d be willing to give us access to Tiretread, but I can’t imagine they’d be reluctant to give us the last known whereabouts of a Housemate.” 

“Copy that,” Roller responded. He brought a hand up to his audial and hailed the Rodion station frequency. Orion flipped through the pictures, checking their quality as he listened to Roller relay the information.

“So,” Roller said when he’d finished. “Now we find Pious so he can get us in contact with Tiretread so we can hopefully find a lead on a missing individual?” 

“Yes,” Orion agreed grimly. Another disastrous layer had been added to this whole ordeal.

“Look on the bright side,” Roller piped up. When Orion raised an optic ridge at him, Roller shrugged. “I mean, now we can open an official investigation,” he offered. “Official investigation means resources.”

 _And that’s the only good thing to come out of this,_ Orion thought. 

By the time they’d worked things out with the arriving officers and gotten as many members of the Maximus House to come to the station as they could, it was well into the night. 

Orion was sitting in his office with a cube of energon when Springarm came in, still typing something into a datapad as he entered. “Sir, I’ve got the Head of the Maximus House waiting for you in interview room two.

“That you, Springarm,” Orion said. He pulled himself out of his chair and followed his subordinate to the room. Orion knew very few things about the House of Maximus. He knew it was the biggest house and held some of the biggest mechs you were likely to see outside of intensive laborers or the Military class. In fact, many members of the house held high militaristic positions.

That was the extent of Orion’s knowledge and up until a couple hours ago, he hadn’t even known the name of the Maximus House’s Head. 

Seated in the hallway outside of the interview room were six mechs—all big with the same fanning audial fins. These it seemed were the House members Wheelarch had gotten ahold of. 

A wave of relief passed over Orion when another officer beckoned one of the members into a different interview room. He’d likely only have to talk with two, maybe three mechs tonight. 

Slipping inside, Orion got a good look at the Head of the Maximus House and his first thought was that they needed a bigger chair. If Orion had been a cruder mech, he might have described the Cybertronian in front of him as ‘an absolutely massive fragger’.

At over double Orion’s height, he was perhaps the biggest person Orion had even seen. He was clearly a warframe and his impressive build was painted a strikingly vibrant red.

“Bastille Maximus,” Orion greeted with an outstretched hand. “Thank you for coming in. I’m Officer Orion Pax.”

Bastille’s hand completely engulfed Orion’s and he wondered if this was what it felt like to be a minibot. 

“Thank you for checking on Pious,” Bastille said, his deep voice rumbling out like the growl of an engine. “He often kept to himself and we might not have noticed he’d gone missing until much later.”

“Of course,” Orion said as he made his way to the other side of the table to sit down. He sat and watched as Bastille eyed his own seat with a certain skepticism.

Orion cleared his vocalizer. “I can send for a bigger chair if that’s unsuitable.”

“No,” Bastille said with a wave of the hand. “It’ll do.” He took his seat and the chair creaked ominously, but held. 

“Right,” Orion began. “Since I already know your relation to Pious Maximus, it would be of immense help if you could walk me through the last time you saw him.” 

Bastille thought for a moment. “The last time I saw him in person was about a year ago.”

Orion reset his optics. “A year?” 

Bastille nodded. “Pious and I don’t quite see optic to optic. We’ve found separation is best for the state of our relationship.”

“Have you spoken with or messaged him more recently?” 

“He wrote to wish me a happy All Spark Day,” Bastille replied, “but that was months ago.”

Orion noted that on his datapad. “Do you know of any enemies he might have had?”

Bastille snorted. “Too many to count. If one wasn’t a member of the lowest classes, a Knights of Cybertron believer, or anti-functionist, they probably didn’t like him. I’m not entirely sure he was actually friends with the Nobles of his circle.” 

“His circle?” Orion asked, jumping on that bit of information. “Do you know who that includes?”

The chair creaked again as Bastille shifted in his comically undersized seat. “The only one of note I can name is Mirage of Iacon, but there were more, mostly from the smaller Houses. I can’t say I cared enough to learn their designations.”

Orion wrote that down as well. He hadn’t gotten as much as he’d wanted out of this, but it was a start. “Is there anything else you think I should know?” He asked hopefully.

“No,” Bastille replied. “Unless there’s something specific you had in mind.”

“No, no, just trying to jog your memory,” Orion said as he turned off the datapad and got to his pedes. “Thank you again for coming in. Please comm the station if you have any questions and have a good night.”

Bastille rose rather ungracefully as the chair shuddered beneath him. “I’ll try, Officer. Getting Pious’s affairs in order will be keeping me busy.”

Orion froze. “Get his affairs in order?” he echoed. “The investigation has just started. Pious may very well be alive...unless you...know otherwise?” He’d meant to keep his tone nonthreatening, but the edge of accusation crept into his voice.

Bastille turned from where he’d had a hand on the door. A deep scowl lined his face. “Are you,” he began, anger rising in his voice, “implying that I am responsible for or withholding information on the disappearance of my fellow House member?”

Staying silent, Orion just stared at Bastille Maximus, waiting to see what would come of this.

“Let me tell you something, Officer,” Bastille growled. “I didn’t get along with Pious. In fact, I disagree with most of the stances he made his life’s work. I don’t have a deep love for Disposables, I think the Knights of Cybertron is a nonsensical story and I don’t particularly care about the class system one way or the other.”

He began to stalk forwards, engine revving and Orion was once again very aware of how big the other mech was. 

“But even with all that, let’s get something straight. I—” Bastille slapped a fist to his own chest. “am the Head of my House. It is my responsibility to prioritize the well-being of the Maximus House and its members. And I—” he pounded his chest again for emphasis. “would never abandon that duty because of something as trivial as a disagreement.”

A wave of hot air flew out of Bastille’s vents. “Plenty of people want Pious dead. I’m only weighing the odds.” He turned and made it to the door in two strides. “And even if Pious does come back,” Bastille seethed as he walked out of the room, “chances are he won’t be the same.” 

The door shut behind him, leaving Orion alone. He stood there, playing back that confrontation in his processor; trying to discern the truthfulness of it. The amount of indignation alone lent itself well to honesty. 

He must have lost track of time because suddenly Roller was making his way inside. “What did you do?” he asked, almost in awe. “The Maximus Head left fuming.”

Orion waved away the concern. “I might have made some upsetting implications. The important part is Pious and Bastille weren’t close. Is it the same with the others?”

Roller pulled out a datapad and handed it to Orion. “Two are being interviewed right now but so far, yeah. No one was very close with him. The House member that had seen him most recently talked with him a few days ago, but said there was nothing out of the ordinary. He had plans to visit a temple for service, but that was something Pious did regularly.”

Orion scanned the notes written on the datapad so far. “Well,” he said, “Bastille mentioned Pious had some noble friends. He only gave me the name of one, but maybe they can give us some insight. Have the security cameras at the home been checked?”

Roller nodded. “Yeah, the footage was wiped. There’s no restoring it.”

Orion sighed. “Then it looks like we’ll be going the friends route.” A quick database search located Mirage of Iacon, but when Orion tried to hail the frequency, he found it restricted.

“It’s blocked,” he gritted out, but Roller didn’t look the least bit surprised.

 _Nobles. Never a straight answer or easy contact._ Orion wanted to claw his optics out in frustration. 

_Fine,_ Orion thought. _I can play the society game too._

He pulled up a different frequency and hailed it as Roller watched curiously. After a moment the call picked up and a deep, if somewhat raspy voice answered.

“Hello?” 

“Hello, Megatron. This is Orion Pax.”

There was a grunt on the other end and the distant sound of someone hitting something. “Hold on,” Megatron said and the line went silent for a minute before picking back up. “Sorry about that. What can I do for you, Orion?”

Orion made the mistake of glancing over at Roller. The orange mech’s helm was cocked to the side with one optic ridge raised judgmentally. Orion nearly choked on his next words. 

“It’s about that consulting offer I—Roller and I made. We’ve recently had some difficulty reaching certain Nobles and I was wondering if you knew of any upcoming events or gatherings we could attend. For access to multiple Nobles at once.”

There was a pause. “I can see,” Megatron offered. “I can’t promise you anything.”

“Oh, of course,” Orion said hurriedly. “Your willingness is enough.”

The sound of someone shouting something in the background on the other end jarred Orion into speaking. “Sorry for asking, but if you could also get us in contact with a Mirage of Iacon, I’d appreciate it. I know I’m asking a lot but it would go a long way in helping us find these mechs.”

“Mechs?” Megatron asked. “There's more than one missing?”

“A recent development,” Orion explained. “I’ll do everything in my power to ensure they’re found.”

There was a small click and then Megatron said “You’re a good mech Orion. I’ll do what I can. Have a good night.” There was another click and the call ended, leaving Orion with a pleasantly warm satisfaction from the compliment. 

Orion looked up. Roller was still looking at him oddly.

“What?” Orion demanded defensively. 

Roller shrugged. “Just think it’s a bit strange, having a crush on your boss’s conjunx.”

Forcing himself not to respond, Orion clutched his dignity close, ignored the embarrassment and exited the room.

* * *

Megatron hung up the comm. He’d walked the short distance out of the gym and down the hallway to get some privacy for the call. He was about to head back when the door slid open and Minimus emerged. 

“Did you need something?” Megatron asked. You called for me a moment ago.” 

“Nevermind, it’s not important,” Minimus said. He raised his hand to wipe at his faceplates, then winced as his digits flexed. He surreptitiously tried to lower his hand again, but Megatron caught sight of the dented knuckles. 

It made sense. Punching fake bodies for multiple hours straight was bound to do some damage.

“How does that work?” Megatron asked, pointing at the damaged knuckles. “Sensation I mean. While you’re inside the armor.” He walked closer to get a better look. 

Minimus let him examine the injury. “The armor taps into my sensory circuitry when I’m inside. I’ll pop out the dents tonight and everything will be fine.” Minimus paused. His mouth opened, then abruptly shut as if the words hadn’t been right. He then said stiltedly, “The tools are in our berthroom. I’d greatly enjoy your company.” 

It felt awkward for multiple reasons, most of all because Megatron was unsure in what capacity Minimus was requesting his company. And all it took was a quick onceover of the other mech to know he wasn’t quite sure either. 

What Megatron ended up voicing was the second source of awkwardness. “I don’t particularly want to spend more time than necessary in our berthroom. It’s...not relaxing.” 

“I can bring the tools downstairs,” Minimus suggested. “After you use the wash racks if you’d like. I know you mentioned you enjoy taking showers. But if you don’t feel comfortable with our berthroom wash racks—”

He was rambling in that perfectly eloquent way only Minimus could. 

“Our wash racks don’t bother me,” Megatron said somewhat forcefully, stopping the flood of words from his conjunx. “We could do it there.”

Minimus looked at him with confusion. “In where?”

“The wash racks,” Megatron said. “It’s big enough for several mechs of my size. You can work on your armor while I shower.”

For some reason Minimus began to shift nervously. His face twisted with discomfort. “I don’t know about that. That’s somewhat improper, don’t you think?”

When Megatron only stared blankly in response, Minimus folded his arms behind his back. “I believe it would be best for us to conduct this downstairs,” he said with overwhelming formality. He turned and practically fled, leaving Megatron to wonder what he’d said wrong. 

Instead of lingering on it, he made his way to the living room and waited for Minimus to join. When he did, he was without his armor. Under one arm he held the damaged hand of the Magnus armor and under the other he held a toolbox of some kind. 

The small mech surprised Megatron by sitting down cross legged on the floor with the disembodied hand resting in his lap. He set the box down beside himself, opened it, pulled out a small device and began to insert it into the base of the hand.

Megatron briefly considered moving from his place on one of the couches onto the floor when Minimus spoke. “Who was calling you?” 

“Officer Orion Pax,” Megatron replied. 

Minimus blinked up curiously at him. “You know Pax?”

“I’ve run into him multiple times,” Megatron explained. “He’s always been exceedingly kind and helpful. You do know I was arrested with Impactor at Maccadam’s?”

Minimus used the heel of his hand to slam the device forward. One of the dents unbuckled. “I read it in your file before our bonding,” Minimus admitted. “You were sent to the Rodion station then?” 

“It’s where I was beaten in my cell by an officer,” Megatron said grimly. The sound of the device moving around inside the hand stopped. “Orion intervened and found me medical care. He proved my innocence and released me.”

There was a gentle touch to Megatron’s side. He looked down to see Minimus had scooted over closer to the couch. “I’m sorry that happened to you and offer my sincerest apologies. I bear full responsibility for allowing corruption such as that to persist in the institution I oversee.”

“Minimus, please,” Megatron groaned. “You’ve blamed yourself enough today. One person can hardly be held responsible for such a long-term, systematic issue.”

Minimus frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but Megatron cut him off. “No, we’re returning to the original question,” he declared. “I ran into Orion today at the Law department. He wanted to talk to Rapido about some legal aspects of a missing persons case involving a Disposable. We spoke and his partner asked if I’d be willing to consult for their case. I agreed. Orion called to ask if I knew of any Noble gatherings they could attend for questioning and if I knew a Mirage of Iacon.” 

There was a moment of silence. Minimus met his gaze. “Are you asking me?” 

“I’m not familiar with either,” Megatron pointed out. “You would be much more well-versed in this.” 

“Well,” Minimus said as he popped out another dent. “Maximo—Maximo Ambus. Do you remember him from the dinner?

Megatron gave a small smile. “It’s rather hard to forget any of your Housemates, Minimus.”

“That’s fair. They’re your Housemates as well now, but anyway, Maximo likes to hold what he calls ‘business bashes’. Essentially, they’re Noble socials that you can attend to negotiate with other Houses, but most go for the gossip, energon and company. I’m not familiar with a Mirage of Iacon, but odds are you’ll find him at a business bash. Nearly everyone attends at least four or five a year.”

“Four or five?” Megatron asked, taken aback. “How many are there a year?”

Minimus reached into the box and pulled out a rag and bottle of polish. “There’s one every month.”

“The cost isn’t a problem,” Minimus said in response to Megatron’s stunned silence. “It’s actually very profitable for the Ambus House. Maximo charges an entry fee and say what you’d like about Maximo’s general intelligence, but he’s a genius when it comes to finance. It’s why Fortis put him in charge of the House’s accounts.”

Megatron let that information sink in as he watched Minimus glide the rag over blue metal. “Is there a way to invite two enforcers?”

Minimus grimaced. “That might be a little difficult, but I’ll see if I can convince Maximo or Fortis.”

An uncomfortable stillness took over. Where previously the quiet between them had been relaxed and pleasant, this felt like the beginning of their interactions with one another in the unfamiliarity and hesitance to speak unless the topic was important. It was the symptom of not knowing where they stood in their relationship. 

* * *

The next morning, Megatron rose early. It wasn’t until he noticed Minimus still in recharge on the couch that he realized how early it was. Careful not to wake his conjunx, he quietly padded out of the room and upstairs towards the wash racks.

Passing through their berthroom made his engines rattle nervously within his chassis, but he ignored the feeling. He pushed his way to the wash racks and drowned his nervousness under the spray. 

It was strange how used he was to being clean now. In the mines there was rarely access to any type of cleanser. Having the opportunity to use a wash rack was an even rarer occurrence and when it did arise, the facilities were usually crowded and broken down. Now a visit to the wash racks was part of his daily routine.

After finishing and drying off, Megatron went back downstairs. This time Minimus was awake. Free of his armor and bleary opticed, he was making his way to the dining room. Megatron followed.

They had their morning energon in relative silence and before they’d finished, there was a knock on the door. They both watched as Arc rushed to answer it.

“It’s Senator Shockwave, Sirs,” came Arc’s jovial voice.

Megatron stood. “That’s my cue,” he said and walked over to where Minimus sat. “I’m guessing you’d rather not speak with him.”

“I’d rather not see him either,” Minimus grumbled, then met Megatron’s gaze. “Stay safe and comm me if you need me,” he said. He reached out a hand and tentatively placed it on Megatron’s arm. “Don’t let Shockwave pressure you into something you don’t want to do,” he advised. 

The statement felt a little hollow, considering Shockwave had essentially pressured both of them into bonding, but nonetheless, Megatron nodded. He gave Minimus’s hand a reassuring pat and walked to the door.

Shockwave greeted him with his usual friendly smile. Megatron felt a twitch of irritation at the Senator’s casualness so soon after he paid Minimus an apparently grievous insult. 

“Megatron!” Shockwave gave him an enthusiastic pat on the back. “I’m so glad we’re doing this.” The hand stayed firmly on Megatron’s back and Shockwave used it to corral him towards a nice, if nondescript, personal, black transport. “If nothing else, this will be an educational trip!”

Shockwave opened the door for him and when Megatron looked in, he was surprised to see another mech already inside.

The mech's single blue optic, simplified helm and three digit claws marked him as an empurata victim. He was a little shorter than Shockwave with red and orange plating. 

At the sight of Megatron, the mech's optic brightened, giving Megatron the impression of a smile. 

Noticing Megatron's pause, Shockwave gestured towards the mech. "No need to be alarmed," he said. "This is Glitch, one of my aids. He won't bite, right, Glitch?"

"Physically can't, sir," Glitch replied, and although it was in good humor, Megatron couldn't help but be slightly disturbed by the idea of having one's mouth forcibly removed. 

"Glitch will be tagging along for the ride," Shockwave explained, ushering Megatron into the transport, then stepping in himself and closing the door. 

Shockwave sat next to Glitch, putting them both on the opposite side as Megatron. 

The transport started to move. "How are you doing this morning?" Shockwave asked. 

"Good,” Megatron answered. “Excited actually."

Shockwave nodded. "As you should be. And how is Minimus doing?"

"Fine," Megatron said curtly and Shockwave wisely moved away from that subject with his next words. 

“To give you a better idea of what will happen in regards to your Emirate status, while Alpha Trion is getting the paperwork together, you’ll be receiving lessons, readings and guidance from me on how to do your job successfully. I decided Kaon would be the best place for our in person lessons—a place to escape notice. It doubles as a chance for you to understand your supporter base.” 

Shockwave leaned forward in his seat. “Speaking of which, I understand you’ve been somewhat in contact with Decepticons?”

“There’s a forum,” Megatron explained. “I’ve used it to publish my work and speak with others, but I’ve stayed off it of late at Minimus’s request, after Sherma’s murder.”

“Smart...that’s smart,” Shockwave muttered to himself. “Although the murder accusation against the Decepticons has gone nowhere, so you should be able to return soon. Today we’ll be meeting with two of my Decepticon correspondents. Keep in mind you might have already met them on the forum.” 

From there, Shockwave began to chatter on about mundane topics: what energon he’d had that morning, the paint job of another aid, a malfunction in another transport. 

Megatron nodded along, but found himself paying more attention to Glitch. The mech remained quiet, keeping to himself and typing into a datapad. But every once in a while he would sneak a furtive glance at Megatron.

Megatron had never spent a significant amount of time around empurata victims and as such, wasn’t sure what to make of the veiled interest. Without a traditional face, Glitch’s expressions were hard to read and the mech kept his EM field reigned in. Megatron was certain there was no hostility, so he chalked it up to curiosity. 

It was when they reached the near edge of Iacon that Shockwave stood up in uncontained excitement. “Look, look,” he said, gesturing towards the dark window. “Blind setting off, roll window down,” Shockwave commanded. 

The transport did exactly that. The windows turned transparent; then slid down. Immediately, a blast of voices became audible. 

Outside in bustling crowds around some sort of administrative building were mechs yelling and shouting. Some were holding up signs and others led chants. It was a protest, Megatron realized.

Driving by made it difficult to read the signs, but many of them carried some variety of two slogans: _Cold Equality_ and _Education Belongs to All._

“Is this in response to the new education law?” he asked Shockwave. “I hadn’t thought there were formal protests.” 

“There aren’t where you are,” Shockwave replied. “You live in one of the wealthiest districts of Iacon. Mechs there don’t need to protest. If someone or their loved one is Cold Constructed, they can buy their way past the law—forge medical documents or bribe educational facilities.” Shockwave frowned. “Well, except you. You’re too controversial for the Ambus House to pull something like that off.” 

Megatron thought back to Fortis telling him that the Senate had underestimated how angry the public would be. “How widespread are the protests?” he asked. 

“They’re popping up in middle class and low class districts in nearly every city.”

“And how is the Senate handling that?”

They were leaving the protest behind now and the shouting was getting quieter as the transport moved farther and farther away. Shockwave made a considering hum. 

“You know,” he said, “I like to view our society as one big scale and the ones balancing it are our politicians. On one side you have the low classes. And if you think about it, most of them are essential to the survival of our society. The miners, the construction workers, haulers, supply transporters and city cleaners— you want as many of them as possible with as few rights as possible. You don’t want them to ever have enough power to change that, so you place groups like the Military class on the other side. You give them more rights, more privilege, keep them happy and now they’re invested in keeping things the way they are.” 

Shockwave smiled tightly. “It’s why there’s an exception in the education ban for Cold Constructs at military or aerial academies. That keeps the scale tipped. Legislation shifts the balance and that’s the problem the Senate is facing right now. Even with the exception, the middle classes are now unhappy. If you look at the protesters you’ll see members of the Medical and Scientific classes. There’s a shift happening and the Senate is still trying to figure out how to handle that without undermining themselves.” 

Shockwave sighed unhappily. “And knowing my colleagues, they’ll probably end up resorting to scare tactics. Sentence a few demonstrators to empurata and terrify the rest into silence.”

Glitch glanced sideways, but said nothing. Instead, he buried his face back into the datapad. The rest of the ride was spent in a kind of unbearable small talk that Shockwave seemed to thrive in. 

But eventually the landscape started to shift. The ground on the side of the road grew rockier with black, sharp stones. The sky grew darker with pollution and then Kaon became visible. 

The first word that came to Megatron’s processor at the sight of the city was compact. While cities had a natural closeness of buildings and other structures, Kaon felt like an exaggeration of that. Everything was built touching and overlapping to the point that it almost looked like one massive tangle of metal. 

Entering Kaon only enforced that notion. Even the roads and ramps seemed to interlock in the oppressive gloom of the city. Megatron watched from the window as mechs went about their business, navigating the city with ease. 

The transport was parked outside an office building that Shockwave explained he’d rented for their meetings in Kaon. He led Megatron and Glitch inside and down a hallway to a harshly lit room. 

“Oh good. I see you’ve already let yourselves in,” Shockwave said. And once Megatron’s optics adjusted to the light, he saw two people waiting inside. The first was a blue and white plated mech with a red visor and white faceplate. The second was a large flight frame with clear weaponry tacked onto his frame. He had searing yellow optics and a layered faceplate that fit into the top of his helm and slanted to avoid obscuring his vision. 

The flight frame rumbled something indecipherable but distinctly rude sounding in response and leaned more heavily against the wall. 

The blue mech nodded at Shockwave. “Thank you for taking time to meet with us, Senator,” he said politely, then turned his attention to Megatron.

“Greetings. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person. My designation is Soundwave.”

Megatron shook Soundwave’s hand. “In person?” he asked.

Soundwave inclined his helm. “You would know me better as Cassette.” 

Megatron reset his optics, and against his better judgment, he let a wide smile break out across his face. “I owe you a thank you then,” he said gratefully. “You gave me a platform.”

“No,” Shockwave disagreed. “I merely showed you a community that sprouted from your ideas. Truly, your work is an inspiratio—”

“Can we cut past all this nice slag,” the flight frame interrupted. Megatron felt as though the yellow optics were boring into him. “I was told this’d be quick an’ painless.” 

Soundwave gave the large mech a look that radiated disapproval, but Shockwave took it in stride. “Of course, Skyquake,” he soothed. “Why don’t we all sit down and talk.” 

All of them did, except Skyquake and Glitch. Glitch scurried off into a corner where he kept the datapad firmly in front of his face and Skyquake loomed over the table the other three had taken a seat at. 

Shockwave started the conversation. “Mechs,” he said, “I think we should be opportunistic here. In this room we have gathered those from different walks of life and I believe all those viewpoints are important in discussing the future of the Decepticons. Or more importantly, what it will mean to be a Decepticon when the individual the movement was built around rises to a position of power.”

“Does it matter?” Skyquake asked with a scoff. “It’s gonna be the same thing it was before he got a fancy title: a buncha fools talkin’ about change like it’s actually gonna happen.”

Megatron narrowed his optics in irritation. Why was this mech even here if he thought so little of the Decepticons?” 

“Skyquake,” Shockwave said with a pained smile. “This isn’t how you said you felt when I approached you in the gladiatorial ring. I—”

“Bloodsports,” Skyquake interjected. “Don’t try to pretty it up. Call it what it is.” He sneered at Megatron. “For some reason everyone loves you down in the pits. Even the ones that don’t got a linguistics program. The Senator probably didn’t tell you, but he wants me to be your spokesperson down at the bloodsports. Wants me to repeat what you say like some damn recorder an’ spread the message of our so called ‘salvation’. I don’t see why I should.”

Megatron felt the irritation bubble over into anger. “Is that so?” he asked softly. “And why not?” 

“I don’t think you’re worth it,” Skyquake said simply. “Who are you anyway? A guy with ideas an' a knack for writin’? A Point One Percenter? I sure as pit don’t buy that ‘gift from Primus slag’ the church pumps out.”

He leaned down and shoved himself into Megatron’s space. “Who says you’re not gonna turn tail once you got your fancy title and office. Cause I think everything you got—all that writin’ talent, your spark type, your new class an' important conjunx— all that is luck. Why should I respect you enough to be your mouthpiece?” 

Megatron could feel everyone staring and out of the corner of his optic, he could see Soundwave’s red visor glowing with a sudden intensity. 

“Maybe—” Shockwave began, but Megatron interrupted.

He sat up straighter and tilted his chin up to meet Skyquake’s challenge. “What,” he said, barely containing his indignation, “do I need to do to earn it? 

Skyquake didn’t move.

“Your respect,” Megatron clarified. “What do I need to do to earn your respect?”

Skyquake drew back slightly. His sneer lifted in surprise but he recovered quickly. “In the bloodsports, respect is given based on power,” he said. I’ll respect you if you impress me in a fight.”

“Now wait here,” Shockwave protested, but Megatron rose to his pedes and glared at Skyquake.

“I'll do it,” Megatron said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this was the longest chapter so far, but I didn't want to split it up. Hope you enjoyed!


	18. Part 2 Chapter 4

The room, according to Skyquake, was big enough to accommodate a fight. They’d just have to steer clear of the table or push it to the side altogether. 

But Shockwave, who was clearly against the whole idea, shook his helm vehemently. “This isn’t happening,” he said forcefully. “You two are not going to start taking swings at each other for the sake of some—some misplaced need to prove worth!”

He turned to Soundwave, looking for support. However, Soundwave didn’t rush to agree. Instead, the blue mech laced his digits together atop the table.

“Everyone in this room is an individual with their own free will,” Soundwave said mildly. “I have no issue with their desire to settle this dispute through violence.”

Shockwave looked at him in betrayal. 

“Calm down,” Skyquake said. “I’m not gonna kill him. The fight’ll be bare-handed. No weapons. ‘Sides, this is how us pit fighters settle things. You better understand that if you want our support.” 

Megatron took note of that information, even as his risk evaluator slung alerts and other concerning data at him. 

Skyquake was taller than him, with most of his bulk residing in his wings and other back kibble. However, flight frames tended to be built with thin plating to minimize weight, while members of the manual class were built to withstand harsh conditions and the damage of being crushed.

Megatron knew he was sturdier and likely physically stronger, but that was where his advantages ended. 

He had no practical experience in brawling. His opponent regularly fought for sport and the fact that Skyquake hadn’t died was a testament to his victories. It was a much more significant advantage in this instance and Megatron's risk evaluator was ensuring he couldn't forget that. 

But even if his chances of winning were a little below four percent, that didn't matter. He didn't need to win the fight. He needed to impress his opponent. And as Soundwave and a clearly concerned Shockwave moved the table aside, Megatron tried to figure out how to do that with what he had.

He was sturdy and, thanks to Minimus, could throw a proper punch. 

By the time he and Skyquake stood across from one another, Megatron knew those meager skills and advantages were what he needed to use. 

Skyquake widened his stance and slid one leg back. When Megatron mirrored the position, Skyquake gave a snort of laughter. 

"Take the first swing," he said. "I'm feelin' generous."

The offer didn't feel very generous, but Megatron stepped in to cross the space and threw a fist out.

Skyquake easily dodged the attack and returned the favor. The blow landed solidly against Megatron's chest, causing him to grunt and stumble slightly back. 

He expected Skyquake to follow, but the flight frame stayed where he was. His optics held a certain delight. 

Megatron waited for a moment, but it was clear: Skyquake wanted him to move first again, likely with the desire to humiliate his opponent. 

It was useful information. Playing into that kind of ploy wouldn't impress or earn respect. 

Megatron braced his back leg and brought his arms up defensively in a denial of Skyquake's invitation. 

Skyquake scoffed. He cracked his knuckles, then grunted out a disappointed "fine." 

He rushed forward with surprising speed and thrust out an arm. Megatron managed to block the hit, but Skyquake's other fist came around in a hard left hook. 

It smashed Megatron in the side of the face. The metal dimpled inward with a pounding bloom of pain. Another hard punch hit directly after, and against the blaring of systems, Megatron managed to clumsily block the strike. 

The success was short-lived as Skyquake began to wail on him. Blow after blow, some to the body, some to the helm and face, forced Megatron backwards until he was quite literally up against a wall. 

In the midst of the pain, disorientating blows and screaming systems, Minimus's words of instruction came to the front of his processor. 

_If I get up close enough to grab you, you want to put distance between us as soon as possible._

That advice and the knowledge that he was built sturdier and shorter than Skyquake was the basis for Megatron's next action.

With a single motion, he threw his helm forward in a headbutt; nailing Skyquake in the jaw. 

Somewhere in the background, Shockwave gave a cheer. Skyquake fell back, cradling his injury and leaving Megatron to reorient himself. But once again, the success was fleeting. 

Skyquake straightened and the look on his face was nothing short of furious. Megatron didn't even have time to move away from the wall before Skyquake was on him again. 

This time when Skyquake made a jab, it wasn't at the face like Megatron was anticipating. Instead, it was directed at the abdomen. 

Megatron thought he felt a ventral panel come loose, but that feeling was overshadowed by the air being knocked out of him. 

Instinctively, he curled in on himself and Skyquake used that to grasp Megatron's helm with both hands. He yanked forward and simultaneously threw a knee up.

Megatron both felt and heard his own nasal ridge crunch under the impact. He was fairly sure the area around there buckled as well, because it was agonizing. 

His legs gave out under him and he fell to the ground with a hand over his face. 

The whine of taxed systems filled the room as Megatron lifted his helm to see Skyquake staring down at him balefully. 

His posture was relaxed; non aggressive. It held a finality to it, as if the fight was over; as if he knew Megatron wouldn't get up. 

Impressiveness stemmed from the rare, the unlikely and the unexpected. And so, Megatron did exactly the opposite of what Skyquake expected from someone he perceived as soft, upper class and undeserving: he stood up. 

He got to his pedes, dropped his hand away from his crushed nasal ridge and raised his arms in preparation of continuing the fight. 

Skyquake slid back into his previous stance easily; as if he'd been ready to do so, but Megatron didn't miss the widening of his yellow optics in surprise. 

They exchanged a few more blows, none of which Megatron landed. But after Skyquake had gotten in another body shot, Megatron threw a well-timed punch. 

He was physically stronger than Skyquake and flight frame plating was thin.

Megatron swung his bodyweight into it and as the metal of Skyquake's faceplate met his fist, he felt it give way beneath. Megatron felt a burst of pride and satisfaction as the plate crumpled, leaving it warped inwards. 

Skyquake stared at Megatron, but the scorn and anger was gone. In its place was a spark of curiosity.

"Fight's over," Skyquake said curtly, then brought a hand up and ripped off his faceplate. 

Underneath was a crooked nasal ridge and scarred face with a fresh and nasty looking dent from where Megatron had hit him. Below that, where there should have been a mouth, was a simple intake port—indicative of mass production and along the lines of empurata in how it restricted emoting. 

A wave of dizziness washed over Megatron in absence of the thrill. And it had been a thrill; an excitement; a _furor._ It was addicting. Despite the pain and fear, the fight had been enjoyable in a confusing way. And when he’d landed that last brutal hit, his systems had sung in euphoria.

Megatron leaned against the wall and suddenly, Shockwave was at his side, looking him over. 

"Primus, your nasal ridge," Shockwave groaned. "Are your olfactory sensors still working?"

Megatron shook his helm, then immediately regretted it as the dizziness intensified. "No," he said. "I can't smell anything." 

The feeling of something wet prompted Megatron to bring a hand up to feel at his mouth. It came away streaked with energon.

Shockwave brought out a cloth from his subspace and offered it over. “Hold this to your face,” he instructed, and then watched as Megatron obeyed.

Shockwave made a sympathetic noise that blended into one of alarm as Skyquake came closer. Megatron met the flight frame's optics, which were still filled with intrigue. 

"I'm impressed," Skyquake said simply, then reached out an arm to Megatron.

Shockwave stared for a moment before his plating flared up like an angry cybercat, but Megatron couldn't muster any anger when this was being offered. 

Outside the slums and mines; in the middle and upper classes, traditional greetings consisted of a simple handshake.

Megatron had been aware of and familiar with this long before he'd known a life with Minimus. However, the lower classes greeted one another by grasping forearms. While equally as simple, there was something to be said for the extended contact and understanding it conveyed.

It wasn't intimate per se, but in many ways, it said 'I see you'. And when no one with a higher social standing did, that meant a lot.

Before Shockwave could make his outrage known, Megatron reached forward and the two clasped each other's forearms. 

Megatron gave a firm squeeze, which Skyquake reciprocated. A mutual understanding passed between a member of the upper class and a member of the lower class. 

_I see you._

When they’d finished and Shockwave still looked like he was about to snarl, Soundwave stepped in. 

“Perhaps we should return to the previous topic of conversation,” he suggested.

Shockwave nodded stiffly and if on cue, Glitch came out of the corner to help move the table back to its original spot. Once they were seated and Glitch had retreated to continue typing on his datapad, Soundwave turned to Skyquake. 

“To clarify,” he said, “you do agree to act as the communication between Megatron and the pit?”

“If you want,” Skyquake said with a shrug. “You sure you don’t want someone higher up?”

“You are a higher up,” Soundwave said pointedly. “Respected and undefeated.”

Megatron watched as Skyquake absentmindedly fiddled with the faceplate in his hands. “Yeah, but put me up against Overlord or some other freak of nature and you’ll be down a mouthpiece.” Skyquake leaned back in his chair. “Why not use Overlord anyway? All it would take is a nice big stroke of the guy’s ego.” 

That pierced through Megatron’s dazed state, and at the same time Soundwave and Shockwave both said “No,” he asked, “Who is Overlord?”

“A sadist,” Soundwave answered. 

That hung in the air for a moment before Soundwave spoke again. “My current employer has connections in the blood sports. I provide him with information which he uses to make wise moves in the betting pools. I’m certain that if I simply relay the correct information, he will use his connections to fix the match-ups.” Soundwave nodded at Skyquake. “That will negate the possibility of you having to face any ‘freaks of nature’.” 

Skyquake inclined his helm at that, but the slight tremble of his wings gave away how pleased he was.

“Well,” Shockwave chimed in, “If that’s been decided, I’ll ask again. What will it mean to be a Decepticon once its originator rises to power?” 

Megatron’s response was automatic. “Why should it mean something different?”

Everyone looked at him and although he felt like he wanted to purge and pass out at the same time, he carried on. “I wrote most of my pieces, especially the more radical ones from my time on Messatine, following the realization that this supposed Golden Age we live in is a lie. You are being deceived. That is the idea the Decepticons formed from. Personally, I see being a Decepticon as meaning you recognize, and more importantly, acknowledge the lie. But then again, I haven’t been in the midst of the movement.”

Surprisingly, it was Skyquake who agreed right away. “That’s about what I hear from that crowd,” he said. “Though here in Kaon, Decepticon usually means anti-functionist. Makes callin’ yourself one dangerous.” 

“Then making it less dangerous to be a Decepticon will be a main goal of mine as an emirate,” Megatron decided. He peeled the cloth up experimentally. When no energon leaked out, he lifted it away entirely and looked to Shockwave. “How possible do you think that is?”

Shockwave tapped his digit against the table a few times while in thought. 

“An emirate tends to have managerial and developmental power over their respective area,” he said at last. “They improve Infrastructure, put out local ordinances and legislation and sometimes act as a representative to the Senate. While emirates are less powerful than senators, there are some authorities that senators have no jurisdiction over, so in theory, you could make Rodion into someplace with those types of protections.”

Having someplace where ideas could be freely spread and shared was power in its own right.

Suddenly, Soundwave stood. “My apologies,” he said, “but my employer is requesting I meet with him as soon as possible. It was a pleasure to meet with all of you.” He looked over the table at Megatron. “And it was a pleasure to see and hear you in person.”

Soundwave offered him a hand and Megatron, confident in the fact that if Soundwave was not lower class, then he at the very least spent most of his time around the lower class, grasped Soundwave’s forearm. 

Soundwave returned the gesture and for a moment, Megatron felt as though digits were gliding through his mind. The sensation ended as soon as it had begun. They broke apart, then Soundwave did the same with Skyquake, shook hands with Shockwave and left. 

Soon after, Skyquake stood, gripped Megatron’s shoulder, and gave him a friendly shake. “You gotta lot of power in this frame,” he said eagerly. “You’d really be somethin’ if someone showed you the ropes. Next time I’ll show you a thing or two. How ‘bout it?”

“No!” Shockwave cut in. “You’ve already roughed him up enough.” 

Skyquake grunted noncommittedly. He gave Megatron another shake and Megatron resisted the urge to purge from the motion. “Here’s my comm frequency,” Skyquake said before walking out of the room.

Then it was just Megatron, Shockwave and Glitch. Shockwave let out a loud sigh. “The plan,” he began with obvious annoyance, “was that after this meeting, I would give you a lesson on emirate duties.” He surveyed Megatron’s damaged form. “Are you capable of retaining information at the moment?” 

Megatron’s first instinct was to say yes, but the throbbing of his face and abdomen made him rethink that. He was in pain, and his systems were in upheaval, causing him to feel nauseous and dizzy. 

“No,” Megatron admitted, knowing concentrating on anything would be difficult.

“That’s what I thought,” Shockwave said resignedly. “Let’s go back then. I’ll send you some information to read instead.”

They exited the building and piled back into the transport. All the while, Megatron could feel Glitch staring at him. When he glanced over, the brightness of the aid’s optic made him wish he could read the other’s expression. 

“Ah, Megatron Ambus, sir,” Glitch ventured once the transport was on the road and heading out of the city. 

Megatron, who’d been lying back with his optics offline, shifted to give Glitch his attention.

“I’ve read some of your work and after watching you today, I just wanted to say I really appreciate everything you’re doing…” he trailed off and ducked his helm in embarrassment.

Megatron gave Glitch a smile as he recognized the aid’s interest for what it was: admiration. “Thank you, Glitch,” he said. “That means a lot.”

Shockwave raised an optic ridge, but stayed quiet, likely more amused than anything.

Glitch nodded with barely contained excitement before returning to the datapad and avoiding everyone’s gaze. Megatron offlined his optics again.

It was only when Shockwave woke him, that Megatron realized he’d accidentally initiated a recharge cycle. 

“Come on,” Shockwave coaxed. “We’re here.”

When Megatron got out of the transport, he wasn’t greeted with the fence of the Estate, but the recognizable building of a hospital. “Is it that bad?” he asked.

Shockwave handed over a mirror he’d pulled out of somewhere and when Megatron got a look at himself, he winced. It was pretty bad. Aside from the myriad of dents, his normally strong nasal ridge had been crushed nearly flat. And to top it all off, underneath a gashed lip was a gap where a piece of his denta was missing.

“I can’t bring you back to Minimus looking like that,” Shockwave said. “I’ve already pushed him too far. He might actually kill me.” 

Megatron snorted. “At least I’m not bleeding anymore,” he muttered.

Shockwave took back the mirror. “You might start once they pop that nasal bridge back up.”

Overall, the treatment was more irritating than it was painful. They got the dents out of his face and body, and then reconstructed his nasal ridge, which had started bleeding. Once the flow had stopped, they welded his lip, repaired his denta and screwed something back into place in his ventral paneling. 

After that, they repainted the paneling, which seemed excessive, but then again, he was a Noble accompanied by a senator. Maybe it was the procedure in such cases.

But even after the treatment, there was still a deep ache that the medics assured him his self-repair would take care of. The entire process went by startlingly fast and soon enough, Shockwave was herding him back into the transport. 

They arrived back at the Estate in the late evening; around the time Minimus usually returned home. Megatron stepped out of the transport for the final time that day. 

“I’ll send you those documents I mentioned some time tonight,” Shockwave promised. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Thank you, Senator, and likewise. I’ll give your regards to Minimus.” 

Shockwave shifted a little at that. “Yes,” he said somewhat haltingly. “Do that. But maybe don’t mention...you know.”

Megatron suppressed a chuckle at Shockwave’s unease. “I won’t,” he assured the other mech. “Have a good night, Senator.” 

Megatron made his way up the path and let himself inside. He was walking up the stairs when an inquiring “Megatron?” interrupted him.

Minimus was in his armor. He stood at the bottom of the stairs with a concerned look on his face. “Are you alright?” he asked. “You’re walking oddly.”

“I’m fine, Minimus. I’m just sore.”

Minimus’s brow furrowed at that. And as Minimus took in the grey mech, Megatron got the impression that his conjunx was making note of every sign of his previous injuries. Despite that, Minimus didn’t push. “Do you think a soak in oil would help?” he asked instead. 

“A soak in oil?” Megatron sank down to sit on the stairs. It relieved the ache a little. “Why would I do that?”

“To heat and lubricate your joints as well as other inner workings,” Minimus said, seeming a little stunned at having to explain. “It helps with soreness and injuries. Have you never had an oil bath?”

At Megatron’s blank stare, Minimus shook his helm. “Of course you’ve never had an oil bath, what am I thinking,” he mumbled to himself. 

He made his way up to Megatron and nodded in the direction of their berthroom. “That’s what the large basin in there is for,” Minimus said. “Would you like to try?”

Megatron nodded and found he wasn’t the least bit wary. Minimus had actually made the process sound refreshing. 

They made their way to the wash racks together. Once inside, Minimus went straight to the large basin that Megatron had always assumed was used for some type of storage. Minimus rotated a handle and a thin, golden liquid began to flow out of a duct in the wall. It poured out and into the basin, quickly growing in volume.

Minimus shut it off when the container reached about three quarters full. Hot air shimmered above the oil as it gently lapped against the white material of the basin. And when Megatron got close enough to lean over the basin’s rim, the inviting heat and smell of the oil hit him.

Oil in the mines was a useless byproduct and oftentimes, a messy inconvenience. Miners, who were used to filth and few opportunities to clean themselves, were never eager to gunk up their seams with the crude black substance. The idea that someone would bathe in that was absurd.

But this oil was different. The golden substance was a smooth, heated and scented luxury. It was then that Megatron realized Minimus was speaking. 

“—Maximo says you’ll all be welcome, but we can discuss this after you’ve finished.”

“Can’t you tell me while I’m soaking?” Megatron asked. “You are talking about the business bash, correct?” 

It was like a repeat of last night. Minimus tensed up and suddenly looked very uncomfortable. “That is what I’m talking about,” Minimus said. “However, I wouldn’t wish to impede upon your privacy, just like I wouldn’t when you’re washing yourself.”

Megatron’s optic ridges knit in confusion. “Washing isn’t a private activity,” he stated with the surety of it being an undeniable fact to him. 

They stared at each other in mutual misunderstanding before Minimus blurted out, “Of course it’s a private activity! You’re opening up parts of your frame—sensitive parts! You’re contorting yourself to scrub and get the spray into hard to reach spots. It’s all very...very vulnerable, don’t you think?”

Megatron shrugged. “In the mines, showers, when we got them, were communal. Everyone’s doing the same thing, so who cares what parts they see?” You’ll see theirs soon enough.”

Minimus grimaced, then averted his gaze. “That’s...an interesting perspective,” he managed.

They were closer at closing the gap, but Megatron was still perplexed by the other’s belief and could see the same struggle in Minimus. So, instead of trying to close it, Megatron took a different tactic.

“What about if you don’t have to look? You could sit with your back to me and there will be no washing. No contorting, no opening panels.”

“Oil baths are still equally as private,” Minimus murmured, but ultimately gave in. “Alright,” he said with a sigh. “But this really should only be done between intimately involved parties.” 

Technically, as conjunxes, they would’ve been seen as intimately involved, but Megatron stopped himself from making a comment to that effect. It would have drug up a conversation about defining their relationship and Megatron was certain neither of them wanted that. 

Instead, Megatron stepped into the basin and unwittingly let out a blissful groan. The oil seeped between his plating and seams and the heat eased his pain and relaxed his body. The all-encompassing sensation only grew in intensity as he sank his whole frame into the liquid. 

Once seated, the oil came up to his shoulders, licking his neck cabling with every movement. As he stretched himself out to get more comfortable, he watched as Minimus sat at the base of the basin, resting his back against it for support. 

He still looked tense and Megatron knew that if he could’ve see Minimus’s face, his expression would be one of discomfort. 

“The business bash?” Megatron prompted once he’d positioned himself to his liking.

Minimus cleared his vocalizer. “Right. Yes.” He cleared it again. “The next one is at the end of the month in two weeks. Maximo says you can bring whomever you want on the condition that they don’t disrupt any negotiations taking place there.”

Megatron nodded along, making the oil slosh.

“The only problem,” Minimus continued, “is that it takes place during a meeting I have with the heads of The Bureau of Enforcement Resources. Rescheduling is something I’d prefer not to do.”

“So you wouldn’t be able to attend with us,” Megatron concluded. 

“Exactly.” Minimus leaned a little more heavily against the basin. “And because of that, you’ll be expected to conduct yourself accordingly.”

“Accordingly?” 

“Social customs and manners,” Minimus explained. “You’ll need to understand how to introduce yourself, how to address those of a higher standing, as well as the hierarchy in general.”

“I always thought there’d be less of a hierarchical structure at the top of our society’s actual hierarchy,” Megatron grumbled. 

Minimus chuckled. “You’ll find most of our customs are built on hierarchy—oh, I forgot about dance etiquette! I’ll have to teach you that as well.”

Megatron sat up straight. Oil rolled off him in streams. “Dance etiquette?” he exclaimed, incredulous. 

“Well, more of a language,” Minimus corrected. “Adding minor alterations into existing choreography to convey various things. Don’t worry; I doubt anyone will be expecting you to have mastered it.”

At Megatron’s sullen silence, Minimus reached a hand behind himself and blindly petted at Megatron’s shoulder. He only managed to brush the plating before he pulled his hand away as though he was afraid to linger.

“There’s a lot to learn in two weeks, but you’re an intelligent mech. It’s possible.”

Megatron sunk back down into the oil. “It sounds as though it would be easier to not interact with anyone.”

“That would be an egregious insult,” Minimus said sympathetically. He then stood up; still keeping his back to Megatron. “Don’t forget to rinse the oil off your frame and drain the basin when you’re finished. I’ll see you at dinner.” 

Megatron watched him leave the wash racks. _Why would there be dancing at a party meant for business negotiations,_ he wondered. 

Deciding to just ignore it for the duration of the amazing experience that was being submerged in oil, Megatron sent a quick message with the date of the business bash and general information to Orion. He then rested his helm on the basin’s rim. 

He lay there a long time, during which, the oil stayed at the exact same temperature. As the heat lulled his systems into contentment and he pondered the possibility of some sort of heating system located inside the basin, a familiar throb grew more incessant from behind his modesty panels. 

He hadn’t interfaced or self-serviced for a long time—not since before his ill-fated trip to Maccadam’s with Impactor. 

Overloading at its core, was a way to move charge. The energy could be shunted to motor relays for a quick burst of power at the cost of circuitry damage, making it useful in life-threatening situations.

While interfacing gave or exchanged charge, self-servicing simply released it, which was best avoided when you were required to regularly brave the possibility of tunnel collapses on relatively small energon rations.

With not so much the realization that he was no longer in such a situation, but the realization of what that meant in regards to self-servicing, Megatron considered indulging. Minimus _had_ told him to drain the oil afterwards.

Megatron slid his modesty panels back and was about to initiate the pressurization of his spike, when he reconsidered. He had ample time. Bringing his hand lower instead, he stroked a digit along the lips of his valve.

There was a soft stutter in his engine as he began to rub a little harder. He delved into the channel shallowly then, enjoying the increase of warmth and strangely pleasant sensation of oil running over his valve walls. 

He shuddered as he stroked his insides and curled his digits. It was a warm, creeping pleasure that grew in increments. 

The feeling retreated as he removed his digits to better find his anterior node. And as he pressed a digit to the glowing red nub, an intense jolt struck him, bordering on the edge of discomfort. 

He withdrew, before returning to the node with a lighter touch. It was a more direct stimulation this time and as Megatron began to pursue his peak, his mind wandered in search of an image to latch onto. 

A nameless, but beautiful speedster he’d seen in some advertisement popped up. It was safe, but boring. As Megatron’s mind began to lose interest, Minimus, free of armor, with his pretty green plating and attractive features abruptly came to mind.

It threw Megatron off and he actually paused in abject embarrassment. For some reason, it felt wrong to think of Minimus like that without his knowledge. In somewhat of a panic, Megatron tossed that image aside and tried his hardest to think of something else.

It was Orion who was next conjured by Megatron’s processor. It should have worked. Orion was principled and undoubtedly good-looking, but it just didn’t do anything for Megatron. 

He liked thinking about Orion. He liked speaking with him and being in his general vicinity. The more Megatron thought about it, the more he realized he was attracted to Orion in some capacity, but that attraction wasn’t interface related. 

The pleasure was beginning to ebb. Desperately, Megatron cleared his mind altogether and focused on bringing himself closer to climax. The charge began to climb once more. He was getting there slowly, but steadily.

A soft moan escaped his lips as he overloaded. He let his frame go limp and relaxed into a hazy glow. 

* * *

  
  
It was a tangle of limbs and gyration of hips. Flashes of silver plating and clever red optics. It was a feeling more than a memory—a haze of obscurity in some parts and clean precision in others.

Lips pressed against his; a heavy, manual class frame on top of him. Their lips broke apart and as he stared at the other’s mouth, it parted to let loose words—beautiful and thought provoking words. Sentences strung together with so much care, it made him want to weep.

The defrag ended suddenly and Orion jolted out of a recharge cycle. It took him a moment to collect himself. Then the guilt hit. As much as he was sure Megatron and Minimus’s relationship was loveless, this felt disrespectful. It felt creepy.

Orion had always thought Minimus a competent leader. He was kind, but strict in all the right areas and tried his best to improve enforcement, and by extension, Cybertron. Orion had a similar respect for Megatron’s keen intelligence and sharp words. He was a mech that wanted to better their society.

Orion sighed. His defrags weren’t under his control of course, but they were probably some manifestation of his inner thoughts.

He dragged a hand down his face and went back into recharge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed! I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments!


End file.
